


It's not Lucky to be Loved

by Blackprose



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Awkward Sex, Domestic Violence (briefly), First Kiss, First Love, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Angst, Funeral, Grief/Mourning, Healing, M/M, Major Post Game Spoilers, POV First Person, Recovery, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Discovery, Suicide, Yoosungs POV, angsty sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-14 01:40:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10526217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackprose/pseuds/Blackprose
Summary: It has been four years since the Choi twins had disappeared from Yoosung's life, but he hasn't forgotten them.





	1. Chapter 1

Every year on this date, I force myself to come here. I don’t know if it’s out of obligation or love or just the simple need to solidify my reality, to trade my abstract concept of loneliness for the physical form of a stone embedded into the ground – it doesn’t matter anyway. Every year, on June 7th, I find myself on this patch of grass, my body on autopilot as I board public transit, a modest bouquet of flowers sitting on my lap. The road was filled with potholes, the only surviving evidence of this past harsh winter, and each time the wheels hit them, my entire body jerks with the impact. I watch the flowers bounce, too, and petals spill to the floor. Maybe I should have opted for better flowers.

When I entered the florist’s, I couldn’t help but stare at this timid bouquet on the sale rack filled with slightly wilted tulips and white roses which had been sitting out so long the discoloured tips had turned pink. There was one sunflower in the middle of the bouquet, likely intended by the bouquet’s maker to symbolize a bright and shining future – though now it, too, had wilted and dimmed, a distant memory of its former light.

“Can I help you?”

The florist had approached me. She smiled when I turned to look at her with a blank expression, apparently reading it as confusion as I stared at this flower arrangement.

“You aren’t the first person to come in here with that look. Are you looking for something for your girlfriend? I can help.” Her words, seemingly innocuous, stung.

I briefly managed a crooked, half-hearted smile, half of my face twitching before the weight of the smile felt unbearable and I dropped it completely.

“Something like that,” I managed.

In the end, I purchased this forgotten bouquet sitting on the sale rack, feeling an inexplicable kinship with the wilting flowers and silently reaffirming my own self-worth; if these flowers can be beautiful in death, then beauty can be found in anything.

Now, I stand on this familiar patch of grass, staring down at an unkempt garden. I clench my fists and blink back tears. Seeing the weeds sprout haphazardly and the grass unabashedly invading the soil I had upturned enraged me. This wasn’t their space; it wasn’t for the weeds or the grass, it was for my memories to bloom in the form of perennials. I kneel, pulling the garden shovel from my backpack, and start overturning the soil, hoping the banality of the task will allow my mind some respite from my thoughts. 

It had been four years since I had seen either of the Choi twins, after all. Back when I used to visit this garden weekly, back when the wound was fresh and bleeding, this garden was beautiful and maintained; a symbol of a life well lived, perhaps, or a token of retribution, as if maintaining this area would somehow erase all the times I had failed us.  My tears nourish the soil, and I mentally berate myself for crying before I even had time to reflect on years past.

When I finish my task, I set the bouquet down on the dark, wet soil and take a seat a few paces away. The scene in front of me is foreboding and brokenhearted, so I turn to the sky instead, looking for comfort and answers to questions that used to plague my thoughts like a song on repeat, questions to which the answers had died with them, questions for which I would never receive any type of acceptable closure.

The clouds are full-bodied and glowing today, obscuring the sun slightly and stealing its radiance for themselves. I wonder if Saeran can see the same sky where he is. I wonder if he is happy. A cool breeze whips my hair and kisses the back of my neck, leaving goosebumps on my skin. Despite it being June, it feels like spring is still thawing from a long, grueling winter. The weather seems to mimic my own feelings, and I begin to ponder if this is all a cosmic coincidence, or if I’m reading too much into my own surroundings, grasping for something, anything, to forget the reason why I came; to forget that need to re-read the same lines every year, incessantly picking at that wound as if I were subconsciously hoping it would never close.

The sunlight peeks through the clouds and, subsequently, the clouds lose their supernatural appearance. Seeing the clouds lose their light, light I knew was stolen, made me feel like I had watched a friend die before my eyes. I sigh raggedly and run my fingers through my hair. I had stopped maintaining its wispiness years ago and let it fall flat into my eyes and onto my face, but I couldn’t stop dyeing it blonde – it was the last colour Saeyoung and Saeran had seen on me, and I had this pervasive thought that if he ever came back, I wanted him to recognize me.

I reach for the backpack I brought with me and pull out a green duotang. Maybe it was stupid of me to preserve these memories in laminate and binding, but after high school, I had to create something real, something to prove that the Choi twins existed. They were real and alive under my skin as I hugged them and shared laughs with them and, despite their disappearance from my world, I needed a physical reminder that they weren’t just my memories, they were the world’s – and I couldn’t let them be forgotten.

The first several pages are of a scrawling, loopy script – a handwritten note preserved between two pieces of plastic. The pages are worn and creased, and tear stains from Saeran and myself blur some words here and there, transforming them into illegible streams that trickle off the paper. The handwriting begins neat and purposeful, as if the writer had perfected these words in their mind before bothering to capture them.

_Dear Yoosung,_

_When I first met you, I thought you were an annoying little fuck. You kept bothering me to be your friend just because you spent so much time with my brother. You probably thought I was also into LOLOL, or anime figurines, or whatever stupid lame shit Saeyoung was into. I would literally go out of my way to avoid you. I know I lied when you asked me last month. I totally did avoid you._

_I guess it wasn’t just cause you were annoying… you were also super cute. You are super cute._

_Do you remember that time we went to the carnival? You had to drag me out of the fucking house, because the thought of being around happy families and kids being normal made me want to puke. And the ball toss! You wanted so desperately for my first carnival to be a success that you wasted like $50 trying to win me that ugly starfish plush. You tried to hide it, but I heard your sniffles when all you could win was that dinky seahorse._  

And I did remember that day. Saeran and I hadn’t even known each other that long before I had invited him out. I didn’t question his reluctance to come out, but I persevered until he agreed to it. The original plan had been for just Saeyoung and I to go, but when I stood in the doorway to their home and saw Saeran slumped over and sitting on the torn and flat excuse for a couch, I was transported to the time when I had first met him, sitting in a corner, slumped in that same manner – as if he was a puppet whose strings had been cut. The dead look in his eyes resonated with me; he looked shattered and in need of protection, and if I could make him my friend, maybe I would be rewarded with his smile.

I didn’t know at the time how strained and abusive his and Saeyoung’s home life was. I didn’t consider the contemplative and melancholic look in his eyes as he watched children parade around the carnival, accompanied by their parents as they embraced, laughed, smiled, and enjoyed one another’s presence. I know now, but I didn’t then, and with a distinct lack of tools to help him, I decided the best course of action was to win him a carnival prize at the ball toss – a game that I was dreadful at, to be honest.

He prompted me many times during my failures to give up because he didn’t care about winning a stupid prize, and told me that I wasn’t going to win anyways, because I “notoriously sucked.” My enthusiasm dripped away slowly with each failure until I had exhausted the spending money I had brought for rides. Defeated, I accepted the small plush seahorse consolation prize and meekly handed it to Saeran, who accepted it wordlessly.

_And then I swooped in, being an ultimate badass, and bribed the guy to give you that starfish plushy._

The sincerity of his words permeated the paper and I felt a small chuckle escape my throat. After handing Saeran the seahorse, Saeyoung had stolen my attention to alert me to some giant swinging and twisting carnival ride called the Face Splitter that he insisted I ride with him. When I turned back to Saeran to speak, he roughly shoved the starfish plush into my arms, making eye contact briefly before averting his gaze with a sour expression on his face. He allowed me to gift the starfish plush to him, provided I keep the seahorse. And kept it I had. I rummage through the backpack to pull out a worn seahorse plush, scales that once shone now dimmed by years of ownership. I set it down on the bouquet of flowers.

I turn back to the letter.

_You always press me for details on how I got that carnie to give up the goods, but I’ll never tell you. Sorry babe, but that secret is going to the grave with me. I’m just really happy I saw your face when you gave it to me. You’re the only person who took the time to try to be my friend, except for Saeyoung._

_Did you know I had a crush on you then?_

 Reading those words alone make my heart skip a beat.

_I failed my math midterm and I think you were more torn up about it than I was. I didn’t want to study with you. I don’t give a shit about polynomials and imaginary numbers… but I said yes when you offered to tutor me anyway. I just wanted an excuse to be with you that didn’t include my idiot brother._

This story. I had been friends with Saeran for several months at this point. When he got 25% on his math midterm, I remember how disappointed he looked before donning his usual guarded and sour expression as he casually tossed the test onto the floor, mumbling about how he didn’t need it anymore anyway. I picked it up and before he had a chance to bolt outside for a cigarette break between classes, I approached his desk and slammed it down in front of him like a mother would to a petulant child. He looked genuinely surprised when I scolded him and offered to tutor him so he could do better next time.

“I believe in you.” I remember how earnestly I said that to him. That was the first time I saw any type of softness in his eyes.

We spent weeks together after school. I had created a bargaining system with him: for each time he got a question right, I’d give him a chocolate. I loved the sparkle in his eyes when I rewarded him. Each time, my fingers brushed against his, too long for it to be an accident. After that, I would secretly nudge him in the correct direction so he would get an answer right and I could indulge in the content expression on his face; a step towards my goal of seeing his smile. If he correctly answered 10 questions in a row without my prompting or assistance, I’d offer to take him to the movies, or cook him dinner.

_Your kimchi was the best. I always looked forward to the days you said you were going to make me some._

I sat in the middle of the of the class and Saeran and Saeyoung sat near the front, closest to the teacher since the class seats were assigned alphabetically. As the teacher strolled from desk to desk, depositing a test face down on each, I watched Saeran’s determined expression as he sharpened his pencil. He turned to me and gave me a quick thumbs up and a lopsided smirk – not quite a smile, yet, but I felt my heart flutter, which gave me pause and caused me to question the meaning of that response.

A week later, we received our tests back. Saeran passed with 70%. The way he bounded to my desk after class and threw his arms around me startled me enough to drop my backpack and tip my chair as I stood. It fell with a loud clatter. The echoed noise and subsequent silence made my cheeks turn red when I noticed my classmates staring at us. Saeran noticed too, because he stopped hugging me and thrust the test into my hands so I could examine it as he pointedly avoided my eyes.

I had kept the test, too. I flip the duotang to its final few pages and find the small note Saeran had written for me underneath the 70% grade the teacher had scribbled:

 _I’m only this good because of you._ These words used to feel like a promise, but now they’re a reminder of my naivete.  

_I remember the first time I got you baked. I didn’t even expect you to say yes when I asked if you wanted to try it. What I do remember is when you tried to light the bottom of the pipe! Like it was crack or some shit. You were always so goofy. It’s pot, babe, not an injectable._

Then, as if on a completely different train of thought, Saeran wrote:

_You have a cute face when you cum._

I can feel the blood rushing to my cheeks and I instinctively reach to hide my face in my free hand, suddenly feeling like a teenager reading a steamy love confession from their crush. I let the duotang fall closed and bury my face completely in my hands, exhaling long and slow as memories paint the insides of my eyelids.

When Saeran asked me to smoke marijuana for the first time, I thought he was kidding when I accepted. A few minutes later, he ushered me behind the giant memorial cross statue in the school’s garden and revealed a glass pipe stowed away in his jacket pocket. It looked phallic; swollen head, thin shaft, and a slit at the end. When Saeran held it up to my lips, lighter standing ready and asked me to suck, I practically fainted. Losing control of my thoughts, I pulled the lighter from his hands and tried to light the wrong end of the pipe. I was too flustered to even respond to him and ended up blowing air into the pipe instead of inhaling, causing a small spray of marijuana to dance in the air like glitter.

Instead of berating me like I thought he would, he silently refilled the pipe and started it himself. He had a mischievous look in his eyes when he grabbed my chin and brought my face close enough he could blow smoke into my mouth. He offered me the pipe several times so I could puff it myself, but I denied him each time. He never asked for an explanation and continued to exhale smoke from his mouth into my own, our lips tantalizingly close, and the thought crossed my mind that if someone were to observe this scene, they may have thought we were kissing. I was surprised at how little the idea of kissing a boy bothered me, and I was downright shocked that I found the thought appealing.

I closed my eyes, leaned forward a bit too ambitiously, and closed the distance between our lips. Neither of us pulled away, and I remember feeling my heart soar when he kissed me back. My first kiss was sloppy and inexperienced. Saeran didn’t seem to have much experience either as he littered my lips with soft pecks; a type of kiss that distinctly contradicted the punk rock image he sold to the world.

The kiss heated up quickly and the pipe was forgotten between us as our hands roamed each other’s bodies, as if discovering a multitude of treasures beneath our fingertips. I grabbed his arms, feeling him solid and alive under my fingertips. Every caress of his skin on mine set my skin ablaze.

“C-can I touch you?” Saeran’s voice quivered as he spoke.

I gulped and nodded, not trusting myself to speak lest I break the spell. He moved so swiftly, going from palming me through the fabric of my school uniform to unbuckling my pants, shoving his cold hand down my boxers and grasping my cock at its base.

I sucked in a breath as his ice-cold hands met my heated skin, and bit my lip to suppress a squeal. I panted into Saeran’s mouth and my eyes fluttered open for the first time since our lips made contact as he searched my face. I needed to confirm that this was real; that it was his hand, calloused and gentle, on my skin. His hand was moving slowly, torturously over my length as if he was waiting for my reaction. I had never seen such a vulnerable look in his eyes. He looked so unsure of himself that I felt the need to say something – anything to stop him from looking at me like an apologetic wolf consuming its prey.

“S-saeran, I…f…it… fuck.”

That was all the encouragement he needed to continue. He jerked me furiously and used his mouth to muffle any moan I began to produce, unaware and uncaring of my noises as I ignited under his touch, each pump bringing me closer to release.

I had that pipe still, too. Sometime during my memory, I had pulled it out of my backpack. Now, it’s sitting in my open palm as I stare at it, dark green with black swirls, the inside coated with dark brown resin. Saeran had given it to me one of the last times I saw him, not as a parting gift, more as a trusted keeper. He didn’t want his mom finding his stash, he had told me, and he asked me to hold onto it for safekeeping. I stopped smoking years ago, but I continued to hold onto this relic of the past. An item both Saeran and I had used together. I lean forward and place it on the soil, next to the bouquet and seahorse plush.

I flip the duotang back open and continue reading.

_I know I wasn’t always the best boyfriend. I’m sorry for all those nights I ignored your text messages. I had told you so many deep things about me. Things even Saeyoung didn’t know. I just couldn’t deal with you having that kind of power over me._

_I ignored you on purpose to party and fuck around. Fuck. Even writing this fucking hurts. I’m sorry I didn’t have the balls to admit it to your face. I can’t even remember what I did most of those nights… like the night I got my tattoo, and I couldn’t explain those marks on my body, either. I don’t even know if they were from someone beating or fucking the shit out of me._

The night he got his tattoo is probably one of the top worst memories I have of our relationship. We were supposed to spend the night together. I had invited him over to dinner with my parents. I wanted them to meet the most important person in my life. Before then, we had spent most of our time at school, or at the mall, or studying in a coffee shop – but I wanted to show him how serious my feelings for him were. I wanted to introduce him to a family that I had no doubts would accept him. They had met Saeyoung plenty of times, but Saeran always avoided coming to my house. That night was no different; he never showed up.

When Saeran’s name appeared on the call display on my phone a little after midnight, I panicked and accidentally rejected the call. I called him back countless times after, but each time, he didn’t pick up. He had left a message, though. I hit play and held the phone up to my ear, heart pounding. Why wasn’t he picking up? Icicles formed in my chest as I listened to the three-minute-long message; wind howling, a loud rustling, an unrecognizable voice groaning and Saeran, repeating my name over and over.

The phone slipped out of my grasp. I am still unsure of how long I sat there, staring at the physics textbook open on my bed, before I grabbed my phone to call Saeyoung. My limbs felt numb and clumsy as I struggled to find Saeyoung’s name in my contact list.

I counted the seconds between rings before Saeyoung picked up.

“What?” Saeyoung sounded exasperated as he answered, and by the sound of his voice, he had been crying. Hearing the unguarded annoyance in his tone wiped all thoughts from my brain. “What, Yoosung?” he spat out, a little more forcefully, with an emphasis on my name.

“Saeran left me a voicemail. I think he’s in trouble.”

“No shit,” he responded sarcastically.

“Oh... uh, is he home?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I tal-”

“Goodbye, Yoosung.” Saeyoung cut me off before I could finish my sentence and whatever response I had spurted wasn’t heard.

The next day at school Saeran had worn a turtleneck under his uniform shirt, covering his chin and neck. When we both sat in math that morning, I stared at him from the middle of the classroom, willing my gaze to telepathically alert him to turn around. He didn’t - not once the entire class. He kept his eyes forward, staring a little too long at our math teacher as she taught the class. I caught his eyes wandering up and down her body with the same hungry look he directed at me when we kissed and his hand had slithered down my pants. I tried not to let it bother me.

I attempted multiple times to approach him that morning between classes, yet he managed to dodge me. When I finally cornered him at lunch time, smoking a joint behind the cross statue in the garden, his face gave me more questions than answers. His entire right eye was bruised purple and barely open. He attempted to turn away to cover his face, but I anticipated his flight and caught both his cheeks in my hands. He flinched and halted his movement, amber eyes locked on the collar of my button-down top instead of my face.

“What happened?” I whispered, leaning close enough to his face to kiss the bruises gently.

“I don’t know,” he responded softly.

“How can you not know?”

“I just don’t.”

Incredulous, I pressed on. “Tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Saeran.”

“I told you I don’t fucking know, okay?” Saeran lifted his arm to break apart our one-sided embrace and cross his arms over his chest defensively. “I went out with some people.”

“What about our plans?” I let my arms hang at my side, and made no attempt to hide the hurt in my voice.

“What about them? I told you I didn’t want to meet your parents.”

“What? No, you didn’t!”

“Yes, I did! All the time. You kept being fucking pushy. I hate that.” Saeran sounded exasperated.

I could tell this conversation was going nowhere. I decided to re-navigate and pulled my phone out of my pocket. I flipped it open and dialed my voicemail.

“What are you doing?” His hunched shoulders relaxed slightly, and he stopped avoiding my eyes.

“You left me a voicemail.” I responded.

“Oh.”

Saeran gently accepted the phone when I handed it to him and held it to his left ear, the side of his face untouched by broken blood vessels and creeping purple bruises. As he listened to the message, his mouth maintained his signature frown. I watched as his eyes glazed with memories. Judging by the expression of surprise and subsequent disgust in his face, these memories were resurfacing for the first time after a hazy night, and they weren’t pleasant.

Once the message finished playing, Saeran hastily deleted it and flung the phone back to me, like it burned to touch. I struggled to catch it but failed; it landed on the ground and in that few second window, he clasped both his hands behind my head and brought me in for a rough kiss. His lips were swollen, and scabbed – likely from whomever had gifted him with that black eye, I thought as I returned his advances.  

“Tell me you love me,” he sighed onto my lips. “But don’t tell me if you have to lie.”

“I love you, Saeran.”  I didn’t need to lie; in my heart, there was only room for Saeran. He never told me he loved me back, so I found the answer for myself in his kisses.

_I don’t even know.. No, that’s not true. That’s a lie. God damn it, this is my one chance to tell you the truth and I start fucking lying. Do you want to know what really happened that night? I went out and got fucked up on tons of drugs… alcohol, shrooms, pot, and I don’t know what else. I just took whatever they handed to me. That voicemail I left you made me remember everything. Some guy told me he’d tattoo the design on me that I made in art class after I showed him. I didn’t have any money but he said that there were other ways I could pay.  I fucked him behind a cheap bar and called you in the middle of it. I’m sorry. The entire time, I thought it was you behind me. I was so fucked up I couldn’t even remember getting the tattoo. I didn’t even think._

_Then, I went home and my mom beat me for being out so late. When she asked what I had been doing, I lied and told her I went to your house to meet your parents. Then, she beat me for being a fucking faggot._

When I first read those words, I was seventeen and in love. I stared in disbelief at the paper as it shook in my hands and my vision blurred as I cried from panic and betrayal. Even now, as I stare down at this preserved note covered in blooms of ink where my tears ruined Saeran’s words, I can feel the wound as if it were fresh.

_I’m sorry I ruined prom night for you._

Saeran wrote in past tense, as if he anticipated that years later, I’d still be reading this letter and searching my memories for clues to explain why he had faded from my life. When the letter began the script was neat and purposeful, now  it was hasty and scrawling and barely legible in some places.

_I don’t belong here. I don’t deserve to be part of your life. I can’t give you what you want. You spend so much time talking about college and marriage and that scares the fuck out of me. I’m not that guy, Yoosung. I can’t get married or grow old with you._

Ever since the tattoo incident, Saeran had been so doting. I hadn’t found out yet what exactly had transpired but I had assumed he had hit rock-bottom and now the only place left to go was up. Without my prompting, he asked if I could reschedule that dinner with my parents. When I suggested the idea to them, they weren’t immediately sold. I bargained with them, offering to do twice the chores in the house for a month if Saeran could come to dinner. Apparently satisfied with the terms, they accepted.

When Saeran came over for dinner, he brought with him a store-bought cherry pie. He handed it to my mother wordlessly with his head down and a tense expression on his face. I wasn’t sure what kind of reaction he had come to expect from a mother, but the way he flinched when she reached for the pie told me he hadn’t been used to a warm touch. I squeezed his shoulder, and his wince reminded me of his freshly scarred tattoo. I mumbled an apology and moved my hand to his shoulder blades, rubbing in circles. The gratitude in his eyes, the slight pink on his cheeks, and the small smile I saw on his face that day had a timeless quality to them. They still feel as vibrant as a polaroid in my memories, and in that moment, I felt victorious. I had seen Saeran Choi’s genuine smile.

I introduced Saeran to my parents as the most important person in my life, and while I caught that pointed look shared between them, they didn’t question my statement and instead welcomed Saeran with an overbearing hug from my mother, and a pat on the head from my father.

_When I picture myself in ten years, with a career and a house, I want to puke. I know that if I let you, you’d just keep being with me as I flip-flop on whether I want to commit to you. You’d waste all your time trying to fix me and the truth is, I can’t be fixed. I’m broken, Yoosung, okay? Irreparably. It’s easier this way, if I disappear from your life._

That same night, after dinner, Saeran asked me to go to prom as his boyfriend. We had been playing Mario Party on GameCube; he had paused way too long at the beginning of his turn, and I watched as the dice block rotate over Luigi’s head one too many times before I turned to Saeran, flummoxed that he wasn’t paying attention. He was staring at the screen, unblinking and absently biting off peeled skin from his lower lip with his teeth. Sunlight sprawled across the rec room, bathing this messy room filled with forgotten workout equipment and the loveseat we were occupying in a golden light. His red hair caught the sunlight and it shined ethereally; his profile looked almost angelic. My eyes traced his outline as I committed it to memory. I watched his lips almost too long, and if I hadn’t been so caught up in my own desire, I probably would have noticed the conflict in his eyes.

“Saeran, it’s your turn.” I nudged him gently with my elbow.

As if waking up from a trance, Saeran sat straight up, blinked twice, and fixed me with resolve.

“Let’s go to prom together.” His voice was even, a feign at spontaneity.

_I can’t keep existing like this. One fuck up after another. It hurts because I know what I’m doing is wrong. I know I won’t ever be good enough for you. Instead, I spent most of our relationship betraying you. I can’t even tell you how I feel about you because I don’t deserve to feel this way, and the thought of you wanting me to love you like you love me, and knowing I CAN’T makes me want to..._

I nodded vigorously, the GameCube controller dropping from my hand, and threw my arms around his shoulders forcefully enough that he fell back onto the tattered leather of the loveseat. I climbed onto his lap and rested my hands on his cheeks; Saeran lifted my shirt up enough that he could snake his hands underneath and rest them on my hips, fingers tracing patterns on my skin. Saeran was always touching my skin, as if he thought his touch kept me tangible and part of his life. Looking back, he was probably reaching for me so often because he knew he was going to leave soon.

_I want to stop hurting you, but I’m too weak. It’s not lucky to be loved by me, Yoosung._

The video game forgotten, Saeran and I made love, rushed and quiet. I remember how exhilarated I felt. Suddenly, all those romance movies made sense. I couldn’t imagine giving myself to anyone else like this; my body, my noises, and the faces he always said were so cute were his alone to indulge in as I gave him everything I was.

_My last thoughts will be of you._

I let the duotang flip closed. I lean forward and set it alongside the wilted bouquet, the faded seahorse plush, and the resin-caked pipe. A shrine to a lost love. I finally feel brave enough to look at the stone in front of me, words etched into a small slab of marble.

“Yoosung?” a voice I thought I had forgotten speaks somewhere behind me, and I tense but don’t turn. Nothing can avert my gaze, now glued to the words carved on the marble slab in front of me, an unyielding truth, an unpleasant physical reminder that I had lost the love of my life.

The words read: Saeran Choi June 11th,1994- June 7th, 2013.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [Blackprose](https://blackprose.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and [@LikelyRogue](https://twitter.com/LikelyRogue) on Twitter. Hit me up to chat.


	2. Chapter 2

You want to hear about that? Why? What good could it possibly do to get me to relive that pain?

Whatever. Okay, fine.

Part of me had died with Saeran that day, on prom night. I wasn’t prepared for the cold slap of reality to hit me once again a week later when I attended his funeral. I didn’t even have the strength to get out of bed, let alone choose my outfit. So when I woke up that morning to a perfectly coiffed tuxedo on the edge of my bed, likely placed by my mother, I knew I should be surprised but I didn’t feel it. In fact, I didn’t feel anything. After listening to that final voicemail and finding that note Saeran had left in my locker accompanied by the starfish plush I had given him - a suicide note, my mind repeated for the thousandth time - I couldn’t feel much of anything. I had felt like my soul had ripped in two. I spent most of that evening with you, Saeyoung, both of us crying together in the empty hallways of a high school we had created memories in, memories that flooded our emotions and conversation as we choked out sentences between sobs, trying to remember the light that we thought we saw in Saeran’s eyes.

I knew he was troubled, I knew from what you both had told me that his home life wasn’t healthy. I knew your mother focused her abusive behaviour on Saeran more often than you for plenty of reasons; because he was troubled, because he was gay and raised religious, because she saw all her failures personified in him as he relived all her mistakes like a checklist. This latter was not something I knew until prom night; you had told me in between choking sobs, your shoulders quivering and your head down while you wiped your nose on the sleeve of your suit.

Why had he killed himself? Was he not happy with life - with me? What could I have done differently? Why did he leave me alone? Didn’t he know how much I cared? Didn’t he want to spend the rest of my life with me? Didn’t I make him happy? I scoured my memories for answers to these questions.

Those were my same thoughts then, too, as I stood fully dressed and stared at my reflection in the mirror. That was the second time I had worn this suit within a week; the first, a joyful memory of knowing I was going to attend prom with a person I loved and whom I knew loved me - and the second…

On prom night, my eyes were full of childlike excitement as I climbed into my parents’ van. I gripped my phone so tightly that when it vibrated to alert me to a text message, it rumbled so loudly in my hand that I squeaked and dropped it. Reaching for it and flipping it open, I read a new message from Saeran:

[6:13 P.M.] Saeran: Saeyoung is helping me put on my tie. We’ll be late.

[6:13 P.M.]Yoosung ★: Can you take a pic?

[6:14 P.M.] Saeran: You’ll see me in like 20 mins.

[6:15 P.M.]Yoosung ★: I want to see nowwwww. (づ￣ ³￣)づ

[6:18 P.M.] Saeran: Fine.

[6:22 P.M.] Saeran: Fuck ties. I’m not wearing this stupid thing.

The attached file is a photograph I have never forgotten; I actually included it in my scrapbook. Yes, the one with the suicide note. Why is that important? Huh, what? No, I made it to remember. Not just Saeran... you too, Saeyoung.

I felt my breath catch in my throat when my fingers fumbled to select the open option on the message. Saeran had chosen a white suit with a rose coloured pocket kerchief. The fit was really nice and I admired how perfectly the suit complemented his slender legs and shoulders and that fiery red hair. As always, he couldn’t abandon his punk rock attitude, and had worn a strappy black choker around his neck.

Did you choose your suits together? I wondered why I wasn’t invited. Feeling the tightening in my own dress pants as I looked at this sloppily taken photograph, perhaps it was a better choice I didn’t attend, lest I fail to hide my desire. Saeran had tucked his hands in his pants pockets and his eyes were turned away from the camera with an annoyed scowl on his face.

After a few seconds of staring, I received an unsolicited text from you, Saeyoung. It was another photograph of Saeran, taken immediately after the first photograph, as his eyes looked up from the floor and his mouth curved into a hesitant yet glaringly confident smile. The sparkle in his eye looked smug and admittedly quite sexy. I had read somewhere that people seemed happiest before they commit suicide. How unnatural. Why would Saeran feel happier when he knew what he was leaving behind? I also remember reading that the reason people appeared happiest is because they knew they had found a solution. Is that true?

Oh.

I guess there are plenty of reasons why people commit suicide.. And if I had to define Saeran’s, I wonder if it was because of the dichotomy he internalized. He was raised Catholic, but was obviously gay. You both were clearly unwanted as children, and even moreso as adults, when you were strong enough to fight back and couldn’t be restrained by rope. Saeran was also obviously distressed about our relationship. He clearly couldn’t process his feelings towards me, and then there was his infidelity...

I would have forgiven Saeran for all those times if it meant I could restore his life. I would have given Saeran everything I was; more than just my body and my love, I’d have given him my life. I didn’t see him as broken or screwed up.. I just saw him as beautiful and sorrowful and I wanted to transform that into joy. Damn it, I _know_ it wasn't my job to fix him. Stop saying that!

The only time I felt like I saw joy on his face was when we were making love. Saeran had taken to exhibitionist tendencies, never feeling quite comfortable in my or his own home - our sexual exploits often took place in semi-public places. He made a point to never break eye contact with me during sex, and the emotions conveyed during were always as intense as the love-making, amber eyes unguarded and boring into me as his hands cupped my cheeks and pulled my hair from my face. He never wanted me to close my eyes either, and the times when I did, he would prompt me to open them again. I had never known sex was as emotionally intensive as it was with Saeran; it felt like his outlet to show me everything he felt for me, and if I closed my eyes for one second, the entire act would lose meaning, like I had come into a movie halfway through.

After sex, he would usually hold me close against his chest, arms wrapped around my shoulders and one hand tangled into the back of my hair. I spent this time listening to his heartbeat, strong and erratic, as he came down from his orgasm. I breathed in his scent; sweet and slightly sweaty, and often coupled with the smell of pine trees from the forest behind the schoolyard. One particular day, his breathing didn’t appear to slow and his fist tangled into my hair, knotting it between his fingers. Then I felt wet on my forehead and cheeks, like rain drops. Originally, I assumed it was dew leftover from the morning, or sap falling from the pine tree we were hidden behind. I only realized the truth when the sound of small sniffles made me realize it was Saeran.

I had tried to look up, but he held me so tight I couldn’t move, and I had begun to feel smothered.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, cheek pressed up against his chest and heaving in rhythm with his breathing.

“It’s just..” His grip in my hair loosened. Perhaps he had become aware of the intensity with which he was squeezing my body. “You’re so… pure. And I feel like I’m corrupting you.”

I wiggled free from his now loose grip and took both his hands in mind, gently squeezing them reassuringly and donning my brightest smile.

“You aren’t. I… love being with you.”

“Are you sure?” His voice sounded so self-conscious and lost. “Because I’m a horrible person, Yoosung.”

“Maybe at Mario Party,” I responded. The joke fell flat and I felt my cheeks redden slightly; if they weren’t already flushed from physical activity, it might have been noticeable. I wasn’t sure what kind of a reaction to expect from Saeran, but as soon as the words left my lips and I heard Saeran’s small, lighthearted chuckle over the pounding of my heart, I knew it had been well-received.

“Dork,” he said lovingly, and leaned in to brush my lips with a peck, a surprisingly chaste form of affection all things considered.

“You don’t think you’ll ever get bored of me?”

“Never,” I reassured him. If this was what it took, if this was all it took to prove my feelings to him and allow Saeran to acknowledge his own self-worth, I would do it a million times over.

Too much information? I know he was your brother. I’m sorry... I got off track there.

The morning of Saeran’s funeral, I spent too long in front of the mirror, wearing that same damn tuxedo I had worn a week ago to attend prom. It looked the same on my body, but the longer I focused, the more I am jarred by how much things have changed. Only a week, and yet it had felt like a lifetime, and I still have an entire life ahead of me without him... It feels wrong that this suit fits the same when I am clearly a different person inside of it, broken and hunched over, eyes devoid of all their light as I gazed unhappily at my own reflection in the mirror.

This time, when I get into the van so my parents can drive me to my destination, it isn’t met with a congratulations and two sets of corsages, one for myself and one for Saeran. It’s met with sad, pitying eyes from my mother and a mute look of indifference from my father. The ride was silent and uncomfortable. Each time my phone buzzed in my steel-like grip, I jumped, expecting a text from Saeran, but it wasn’t... and it never would be again.

When we arrived at our destination, my mother handed me a solemn bouquet of white roses. It’s typical to bring flowers to funerals, she explained, but I barely hear her as I accepted it, gripping it lightly and willing the idea it represented to vanish along with it. I stepped into the funeral home and immediately hoped to god I’d never need to step into another one. Everything was perfect, perfect to the point of being unlivable, and I reminded myself that no one who roomed in lodging such as this was alive. My presence felt intrusive; myself, being the only frumpy and disheveled thing in the empty receiving area save for an untouched stand with a jug of ice water and a couple dozen pristine crystal glasses.

As I walked past multiple empty viewing rooms, I hoped to see you so we could talk and I could offer support. I had texted you multiple times in that week between prom and the funeral but I hadn’t gotten any response since prom night. I tried to give you space, tried to understand what it would be like to lose a brother… but I couldn’t. I have no siblings and I was too wrapped up in my own heartbreak to begin to fathom yours.

Saeran’s funeral was modest and quiet - much like I would anticipate it to be. I stood at the entranceway to the room, grip tightening on the bouquet of flowers until I felt their stems snap between my fingers, and thorns cut painfully into my skin, my knuckles white. I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood as I tried to swallow my tears and the lump in my throat. At one end of the room, a simple wooden coffin, wide-open and red hair visible from this distance. I couldn’t make out anything else, and truthfully, I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I could feel the nausea building up in my stomach - if people described love as butterflies, then this was feeling was closer to a buildup of ants or earwigs, wriggling and settling on the bottom of my stomach and threatening to induce vomiting if I let it consume me.

I had never felt so anxious in my life. I moved one shaky leg forward, bypassing the small line of relatives and heading straight for the open casket before I lost my willpower - and my chance to say goodbye. Saeran looked asleep. I had never seen him sleep before, had never gotten the chance to, but if I had to describe it as anything, he looked pale and sleeping, hands clasped over his chest. I reached for his hand, hoping my desire to see him wake again would give him life - as if I were Prince Charming and he my soulmate, and this some fairy tale where love was as immovable as death, maybe even moreso. When my fingers brushed his and only felt a sickening coldness, my world shattered for a second time. Life isn’t a fairy tale after all - and there are no happy endings. All I could feel was cold, unresponsive skin, and all I could do was stare at his chest, waiting for it to rise and fall like it did when I was pressed up against him. But it did not move. A shiver ran down my spine as I thought about how disconnected this physical contact was, and how different it was from my memories of him alive and inside my arms.

Originally, I wanted to visit to say goodbye and kiss his cheek, but as I stood over his casket, my resolve disappeared. I had come face to face with reality - I was not as confident as in my imagination, and I was not able to give him that final kiss he deserved. I just stared at him as my tears marred his suit - the very same suit he had worn to prom.

Then, someone roughly yanked on my collar, momentarily winding me and sending me stumbling backwards where I landed on my back and bottom, bouquet slapping onto the floor and unleashing a scatter of petals.

“Get out of here, you fucking faggot.”

The voice was feminine, domineering, and extremely angry. I scrubbed the tears out of my eyes so I could get a better look. This woman didn’t have the signature red hair the Choi twins had, but she shared their face shape and nose. Even as she stood over me, I could smell the putrid alcohol on her, like it seeped from her pores. Her piercing eyes, the same amber as Saeran’s, fixed me with a look of unguarded disgust. I had never received any type of hate for my relationship with Saeran, nor had I ever met his mother, but if this was how she treated complete strangers, my heart ached at the thought of the type of abuse Saeran endured his entire life. I scrambled to my feet, dusting off my rumpled dress pants, and attempted to hand her the beaten up bouquet I was holding. She regarded it with contempt out of the corner of her eyes as a sneer crossed her lips.

“Do I need to fucking repeat myself?” she spoke slowly and carefully, and with a drawl that made me suspect she was currently intoxicated. “I don’t want my faggot son’s boyfriend here,” she spat at me.

In any other situation, I would have taken the first opportunity to flee at such treatment. Instead, I stood my ground and steeled my gaze. “Where is Saeyoung?” I asked her.

“Don’t fucking know. And even if I did, why the fuck would I tell you?”

I could tell this conversation was going nowhere, and I chose not to respond, feeling defeated and unable to maintain that one-sided argument. I just sauntered out of the room, maintaining my rigid composure. When I crossed the threshold into the hallway, my knees buckled and I crashed to the floor, where I sat for several minutes as I failed to stifle my wails, my own dejected moans sounding inhuman to my ears.

I didn’t have the strength to go back in again.

I decided to wait for you outside the building. I stood by the entrance and under the canopy as I inhaled the deep scent of rainwater and pine that permeated the air. Pine always reminded me of Saeran’s scent, and it gave me momentary relief to think that he wasn’t completely gone from my life. I assumed you would have come by this way at least once today. One hour passed; then two; and then three, and still no sign of you.

I flipped my phone open and dialed your number. It rang until your voicemail answered. “You’ve reached handsome billionaire extraordinaire and philanthropist, Saeyoung Choi. Please leave a message after the beep. BEEP.” I had already left you dozens of text messages, so I hung up. Instead, my eyes hovered on the little cassette icon on the top left of my phone screen; a voicemail that was exactly a week old. Without thinking, I dialed the number and ignored my breathing, which had turned rapid and shallow. I shouldn’t do this, I repeated out loud over and over, I shouldn’t listen again, but I had to... I had to...

“Yoosung?” the message began, “Yoosung, I need you to listen. I’m not coming back to the auditorium. I’m not coming back to prom. I know you’d just try to talk me out of it, and I don’t want that. Okay? There’s nothing for me after high school. This is the end... I literally have no future here, and I can’t keep doing this.” Saeran sighed deeply into the phone at this part, a defeated and ragged sigh I would listen to countless times throughout the years. “Check your locker, I left something for you there. I just... I just need you to know one thing… One thing I wasn’t strong enough to write down.” Then, a twenty second pause as the phone occasionally recorded muffled sobs, followed by silence. “I’m sorry, and... I love you, Yoosung.”

I think you must have noticed the drastic change in the air when I first listened to that voice mail on prom night because you had abandoned your date to comfort me. I let you listen to the message, and watched your eyes darken with concern and fear as my breath caught in my throat and my lungs refused to cooperate. I remember dashing to my locker when you disappeared to hunt for Saeran. My locker was where he stashed his… his suicide note and the starfish plush from the carnival we had visited together. But you already knew that, right?

I never saw you the day of Saeran’s funeral, nor did I get to give Saeran a proper goodbye. I walked home, ignoring the bursting blisters on my feet from ill-fitting dress shoes, and the stinging cuts I had given myself from gripping the bouquet of roses too tightly, and the cold rain as it soaked my clothing and mixed with my tears as if the entire world was crying along with me. When I got home, I slumped into my bed, pulled the covers over my head, and just... retreated further and further into myself until I stopped thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [Blackprose](https://blackprose.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and [@LikelyRogue](https://twitter.com/LikelyRogue) on Twitter. Hit me up to chat.
> 
> My wonderful friend Hayley ([Ijaeli-art](http://ijaeli-art.tumblr.com/) on tumblr) created this absolutely stunning piece of [artwork](http://ijaeli-art.tumblr.com/post/159252962593/youre-the-only-person-who-took-the-time-to-try) for me based on the first chapter of the fic . Please show her some love!
> 
> A big thank you to [Ely](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ely) and my fiancé for proofreading this chapter for me! If you haven't already, I suggest you check out Ely's fics cuz it's some good shit.
> 
> I appreciate all your comments on my first chapter everyone! While I don't respond to all, please know how much I adore receiving them
> 
> Lastly, I am aiming to update this fic once a week on Sundays. Let's see if I can adhere to that schedule!


	3. Chapter 3

I had just spilled everything to him, shared some of the most intimate moments of my relationship with Saeran, as he made me relive prom and Saeran’s funeral over again. Seeing Saeyoung Choi in the flesh again after four years made me feel like he was an apparition. He doesn’t speak after I finish my story, not for a long time, and I take these moments to watch him, and categorize the differences between Saeyoung now and the version of him I remembered. 

He is  _ actually _ in front of me. In a matter of seconds, I feel transported back to high school; he sounds the same, save for a slightly deeper inflection as he speaks, and he looks the same, too. A little taller, maybe, a little more fleshed out - he was always bigger than Saeran, who could have been described as sickly - but now Saeyoung looks solid, different than the lanky teenager I remembered. Even underneath that odd black sweater adorned with orange cuffs and circles I could see his muscles and chiseled jawline. I gulp and consider averting my gaze, but I just can’t. 

Perhaps I could have convinced myself that no time had passed at all, that I was back in high school, sharing a hot beverage with Saeyoung like old times in the coffee shop that we used to take Saeran to - but I couldn’t. The invasive memory of Saeran’s gravestone shattered any illusions. I picture it, glowing brightly with reflected sunlight, and remember the cold feeling of marble on my fingertips as my hands lightly trailed and dipped into his name. 

I watch Saeyoung remove his glasses and hold them up to the light, squinting as he searches for a smudge or blemish. Then he sets them down on the table in front of us, next to his raspberry-lemon flavoured slush drink. Despite this being a coffee shop, neither of us have an affinity for coffee, I think idly as I sip on my hot chocolate. Those glasses are a new addition. Maybe I could have believed that the passage of time had halted for both of us if it weren’t for those garish striped spectacles. With them off his face, he looks much younger, but it also means I can see the bags under his eyes more clearly. They make him look sunken and tired, and his overall slumped posture doesn’t help, either. He had barely touched his drink during my entire monologue, and he looks even less interested in it now. 

I cup my hands around the disposable cup, leeching its warmth. I had read somewhere, once, that people hold warm items like this as a means of comfort, to simulate the physical warmth we would receive from a hug. During my monologue and our brief reunion in the graveyard, Saeyoung never reached for me once. He just watched me speak, his eyes flickering with various emotions I couldn’t begin to decipher before they disappeared under a cool, stoic blankness. I should have watched his emotions more closely as I spoke, but I was more interested in indulging in the amber colour he and Saeran shared, a colour I thought I’d never see again. It was just as breathtaking as I remembered, and despite my understanding that the Choi twins were two different people, I couldn’t help but think that both of them spoke wordlessly through their eyes. Only now it seems that Saeyoung has had time to grow and master this weakness. 

“Wow,” was all he had to say. 

I should feel embarrassed that I just told him everything; I should have respected Saeran’s privacy, and I shouldn’t have revealed that side of his brother to Saeyoung, who clearly isn’t able to process it... But he had been the one to ask me, the one to invite me to this coffee shop after we met in the graveyard. Despite everything, he was still my best friend, and I had been suppressing these feelings for so long. They all tumbled out heedlessly at his request, as if I had been waiting for the slightest indication he wanted to hear so I could spill my feelings before they threatened to consume me.

“So, you go every year?” 

“Pretty much.” I begin to fiddle with the rim of my hot chocolate, flicking the plastic lid open and closed with my index finger. “I used to go weekly to garden. It, uh, used to be much nicer.”

“That’s… really nice, Yoosung,” Saeyoung says, pausing between words to bite his lip. “What have you been doing since high school? Did you get into that college you wanted?”

“Oh... um, yeah.”

“You’re a vet extraordinaire now, right?” a familiar mischievous twinkle flickers in Saeyoung’s eyes. “If I wear cat ears, will you treat me, too?”    


“I... didn’t become a vet.”

“Huh? No don't tell me. Time for guesses! Oh, a computer programmer? No? Hmm... oh, I know! A-a doctor? What? No again? Hmph. Okay… hmmm… You were always super good at math… maybe a professional longcat breeder?”

“I-what does that have to do with math? Also, none of those things.” I run a hand through my hair, pushing my bangs from my eyes, and thinking about a fictional universe where I was good at math. Hah, yeah right. “I dropped out. It wasn’t for me.”

“Oh, why?” Saeyoung appears to have lost his sparkle, and I watch him deflate. He looks even more upset now than when I recounted Saeran’s funeral. 

“I wasn’t in the mood for it.” 

“Right,” Saeyoung acknowledges softly. He sounds almost disappointed in me. 

Seeing my best friend for the first time in four years left me feeling... complicated. Usually, I’d have been overjoyed to see that familiar and comforting red hair, but all the subtle differences in his appearance and personality (I recall him being much more of a prankster in high school than this serious, composed adult in front of me, all cat jokes aside,) coupled with the fact that I saw him for the first time at Saeren’s gravestone, left me feeling vulnerable and emotionally raw. With these emotions plaguing my thoughts and seizing my aura, I found it difficult to even feel happiness around him. In fact, all I felt was a glaring emptiness, and considered it a reflection of my soul. 

Maybe I had hoped he would be as cheerful as always. Maybe I had hoped he’d start pranking me again. Maybe I had hoped his appearance meant that this was all a prank… that Saeran had never died, and this was another one of his jokes. That was the only reason I could imagine would cause him not to attend his twin brother's funeral. That’s the only acceptable reason, I told myself. 

Sitting in this coffee shop at sundown, neither of us drinking coffee, and Saeyoung speaking to me like he was scolding a child made me angry. In fact, it made me feel more than anger; betrayal and abandonment mixed into my cocktail of emotions, and the previous emotional emptiness burned a bright red.

“Yeah, well, what about you?” I spit out, and dig my fingernails into the cup in front of me, denting the cardboard and sloshing the hot chocolate inside. “You just disappeared after high school! You didn’t even come to his funeral. What exactly have _ you  _ been doing all this time?”

“That's…” Saeyoung trails off, never completing his sentence. He reaches for his glasses and rests them back on the bridge of his nose, eyes closed.

“That’s what?” I prompt, sounding much too hostile.

“Classified,” he finishes lamely. 

I retract my grip from the disposable cup in front of me, hot chocolate completely forgotten, and abruptly stand. The metal chair screeches against the floorboards, echoing in the small shop space. 

“We’re done here.” 

As I grab my backpack and attempt to leave, Saeyoung reaches out and grabs my arm to keep me in place. I jerk my arm up and down to detach him, which only strengthens his grip. 

“Yoosung, wait!”

"What?”

“I came to talk to you, meow.” His words seem lighthearted, but his delivery falls flat.

“Are you just going to not answer my questions as I spill my guts some more, then? ’Cause I’m done with that. I can’t keep telling you Saeren’s secrets if you won’t even tell me what you’ve been doing since high school.”

“That’s..”

“Classified, yeah. I got it.”

“I can tell you other things, though,” he explains hastily, in one rushed breath, as if he understood I wasn’t going to stick around for a long conversation. 

“Right, sure thing, Saeyo-”

“Luciel.”

“What?” This gives me pause.

“I’m not Sae.. I’m not that person anymore. Call me Luciel,” he murmurs under his breath. 

This newfound information raised more questions than it gave answers. My arm had gone slack in Saeyoung’s grip, but I lift it again, determined to escape wherever this discussion was going. This was not how I imagined my reunion with him would go. I imagined it countless times, and never was he so different, never had he abandoned his identity. Despite my logical side arguing that there was probably a legitimate reason for this, my emotional side kept repeating that it was because he wanted to abandon Saeran and I, his discarded and no longer useful memories. Part of me hated how easily I imagined it was for him to forget us. While here I am, four years later with nothing to show for it, still very much in love with a dead man who I barely spent a year together with. 

I had never responded to Saeyoung, so he took it upon himself to continue whatever conversation we were currently having.

“Can we… can we get out of here?” 

My mind immediately thinks no, no way - never. I don’t want to open up these emotional floodgates further than they have already squeezed open, nor do I want to continue this discussion with someone I could best describe as a stranger. This man was Luciel, not Saeyoung Choi, my best friend.

But instead of no, I say, “Okay.”

Saeyoung - no, Luciel - ushers me outside the coffee shop and onto the streets, where we stroll about two blocks in a roundabout, seemingly aimless path to the vehicle he had parked behind the coffee shop. I don’t know why he took me on such a long route to get somewhere literally less than a minute’s walk away, nor did I truly want to ask. If the person in front of me was Saeyoung, I’d have thought he was trying to see how far he could push a joke before I complained. But now, I have no explanation for this stranger's behaviour. I just followed wordlessly, hoping desperately that this tension in the air will dissipate once I sat in his vehicle.

This vehicle was yet another mystery piled upon the other mysteries I had discovered today; an all white luxury model sports car, the same he drove when he pulled up to the graveyard, and when he drove us from the graveyard to this coffee shop. Digging into my admittedly poor repertoire of knowledge on cars, I can only conclude that this one is expensive and well-maintained. When Luciel unlocks the doors and I sit on those leather seats for the second time today, I inhale new car smell, mixed with leather from the interior and pine from his air freshener. On his rear view mirror dangle a set of fuzzy dice with small cat outlines for pips instead of circles. However, that wasn’t what caught my attention.

Pine. A smell I had come to so closely associate with Saeran. Breathing it in at this moment makes my stomach churn painfully, so I lean forward as far as I can until my head is between my knees. This is too much. If I hadn’t cried so much earlier in the graveyard, I would have undoubtedly been crying now. Instead, I just squeeze my eyes shut, too emotionally spent to cry, and let the nauseous feeling wash over me. 

“I got recruited as a professional fan fiction writer.” Saeyoung’s voice is sing-song and noncommittal. He either isn’t taking me seriously, or hopes I’ll fall for one of his pranks again. Right now, it feels overwhelmingly like he’s lying and my newfound disdain for him grows. “That’s why I abandoned my identity. I couldn’t live with myself after all the commissioned Supernatural fics I wrote about Castiel’s first time.” 

“I grew up,  _ Luciel. _ ” I spit out his fake name, hoping it stings enough that he stops sidestepping the issue. “I don’t fall for that stuff anymore.”

I hear him suck in air between his teeth, and exhale with a sharp, pained hiss. 

“Okay, okay. Don’t bite my head off. After high school, I ran away from home.” Saeyoung - Luciel - begins solemnly, “After prom night... After Saeran… I had no reason to stay. I was eighteen. She couldn’t keep me anymore.”

“Why didn’t you come to my house? You could have stayed with me!” I protest, as if offering all these years later would somehow rewrite the past. Against all logic, I wanted it too, though; I couldn’t stand the thought of Saeyoung choosing isolation over me, his best friend. We could’ve worked through it together, and maybe then I wouldn’t be so broken and repressed. I wait for him to answer, wait too long for him to make eye contact, but his eyes are set on the brick wall in front of us, the back of the coffee shop, and his hands grip the steering wheel tightly despite the car not even being on.

He isn’t responding, so I prod further, suddenly interested in uncovering answers to long forgotten questions and feeling like I was airing out the furthest corners of my mind and finally -  _ finally _ , I might receive some type of acceptable closure. 

“Have you ever visited the graveyard before?” I ask.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because Luciel Choi doesn’t have any relatives.”

“Who is Luciel Choi?”

“Nobody important.

“Who is Luciel Choi?” I repeat myself, a little more firmly than before.

“A professional fanfic writer. Next question.” He won’t tell me the truth. 

“Why didn’t you come to the funeral?” 

His grip on the steering wheel tightens. I can hear the strained sound of skin rubbing against leather and watch his knuckles turn white. He grits his teeth in what I can only assume is agitation, but he still doesn’t look my way.

“Because I didn’t want to see.” He whispers so softly I thought I imagined his response rather than heard it. 

I thought about asking him what he didn’t want to see: his brother or me. I thought about lying to myself and feigning naiveté - but truthfully, I knew what he didn’t want to see. And I hadn’t wanted to see it, either. 

“I waited for you.” My voice sounds lost and small, and I hate myself for sounding so broken. 

“I know… I’m sorry.” Tears fall down his face, streaking his cheeks and dripping off his chin and onto his lap.

“Why did you come to the graveyard this year?”

“I’m on vacation,” Saeyoung explains lamely, as if vacation means he can abandon his fake identity and don his original one like a mask or a set of clothing. 

“Who is Luciel Choi?” I fixate on this question, convincing myself that understanding his new identity somehow held the key to the truth. 

“I can’t tell you,” he emphasizes each word as if it were its own sentence, and I can hear the aggravation beginning to drip into his tone and his posture as he stiffens slightly. 

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want you to get hurt.” With those words, the agitation drips out of Saeyoung like a cascade. “I’m a horrible person, Yoosung.” He looks defeated.

And those words stung. This is the second time a Choi twin had told me they weren’t a good person. Hearing this elicited a range of feelings inside me: misery, affection, and distress, but more than anything, they screamed ‘Saeran.’ When I reach out my hands to Luciel, this thought crosses my mind: if he can change identities on a whim, then I can assign an identity to him - and my fingers touch Saeran’s red hair, and wipe tears from Saeran’s cheeks. 

“Let’s make kimchi.” Filter abandoned, my mouth speaks of its own volition. 

“You always made the best kimchi,” he responds, catching my hand and rubbing his thumb over my knuckles. 

***

The car ride here had been tense and quiet, yet as soon as we stepped out, the cool evening air seems to whip away the tension like sand in the breeze. I found myself feeling... lighter. Being with Saeyoung - Luciel - Saeran - whoever I decided he was in the moment, made me feel like I was with my best friend and the love of my life simultaneously. 

As soon as we enter the automatic sliding doors to the grocery store, I mentally create a checklist of the items we need for kimchi: napa cabbage, garlic, daikon radish, scallions, ginger, and seaweed paper. I intentionally leave out spices because I know I have what we need in my pantry back at home.

I intend to peruse the produce section first to find that perfect napa cabbage for the kimchi. I need one that looks crisp and bright white. While I can be described as spacey when it comes to all other aspects of my life, cooking is one hobby I take extremely seriously, especially kimchi. This recipe is based loosely off my mother’s, and is adored by Saeran and Saeyoung. I haven’t made kimchi in years, so I set to this task like Superman Yoosung on a rare LOLOL quest, determined and nondivergent.

At least, that was my intention before I feel a rough tug on my hand as he pulls me towards the pastry and bread section of the supermarket. I watch the produce section retreat from my vision, and find myself holding a hand out almost woefully, mourning the loss of a ripe opportunity to select prime cabbage. 

Saeyoung loads our grocery basket with various breads and bread-based delicacies: garlic bread, muffins, danishes, two-bite donuts, and cinnamon buns. This last item he grabs off the shelf and holds out expectantly. I watch him quizzically as I reach a hand forward for him to deposit the package. His smile is contagious; I can feel my lips quirking up at the corners. Then, Saeyoung lifts two fingers to his lips then rests them on my own; an indirect kiss. His fingers are warm and soft. I feel my face heat up involuntarily and I focus my eyes on the cinnamon bun package in front of me. Did you know cinnamon rolls have 436 calories per serving?

“Too good for this world, too pure,” Saeyoung mutters, and I catch him lifting his phone and snapping a polaroid of myself standing in rumpled dress pants and shirt, holding a package of cinnamon buns, a creeping red engulfing my face. 

I roughly shove the cinnamon rolls into his chest, hearing the plastic bend and crackle upon impact and walk away, exasperated and embarrassed and still determined to find that perfect cabbage. Saeyoung doesn’t challenge me, and instead follows dutifully behind me, cackling to himself. As upset as I am, my heart aches at this familiar feeling. Maybe Saeyoung hadn’t changed after all. Guilt creeps its way into my thoughts when I reconsider how I had assigned Saeran’s identity to him, albeit temporarily, and I mentally steel myself to not fall into that trap again. 

When we finally acquire all the items needed for kimchi, plus whatever additional junk Saeyoung slips into the basket, we head to the checkout. I am unsure how my original checklist for kimchi ingredients turned into kimchi ingredients and Honey Buddha Chips and garlic bread and cinnamon buns.

“Why garlic bread?”  I ask Saeyoung.

“For the spaghetti!” He exclaims gleefully, and wraps an arm around my shoulder. He uses his free hand to tap me on the nose, “We’re making spaghetti, right?”

“We’re making kimchi,” I say confidently, but my confidence falters when Saeyoung begins to wiggle his eyebrows at me suggestively, “Aren’t we?”

“Ding, ding, ding! No spaghetti zone.” He abruptly retracts his arm and creates an x-pattern with both his arms. “We’re keeping the garlic bread, though. For science.”

***

When I lead Saeyoung into my apartment, he overemphasizes his awe until he sees the general state of disarray; clothing strewn about haphazardly, bed unmade, and a half consumed frozen dinner sitting on the counter from lunch earlier. I usually tried not to leave food out, but today was June 7th, the anniversary of Saeran’s death. My nerves made eating an entire meal feel insurmountable. 

He offers me the use of his maid, Ms. Mary Vanderwood the Third. Back in high school, distinguishing myth from reality with Saeyoung was difficult enough; but now, he easily could have a maid with an outrageous name and I wouldn’t have known otherwise. The crisp, vibrant polaroid in my brain that I used to classify Saeyoung Choi blurred in my mind's eye and instead of responding, I just nod my head absently, addressing his statement, but letting it hang in the air until it was unwelcome and uncomfortable.

The rest of the night passes quickly. He and I worked swiftly, cutting and salting the cabbage. At first, he insisted on cutting everything in the shape of cartoon hearts, until his many failures and my annoyed prompting lead him to abandon that mission. 

Standing beside him, smelling the familiar Choi scent that I couldn’t quite place (both he and Saeran had a vaguely sweet smell to them,) and my shoulder pressed against his while we work side by side makes my willpower snap as easily as the cabbage underneath our knives. And I, once again, assign Saeran’s identity to him. If I close my eyes… if I don’t analyze the subtle differences in posture and physique… if I don’t consider how ethically wrong this is… I can fantasize, right? Who is it harming? 

I understand that this isn’t Saeran with me. I know that this is his twin brother, but each time he turns away and I am unable to see his face and eyes, I indulge my own self-destructive thoughts and let myself believe momentarily that this is Saeran with me. 

Dammit, why am I doing this again? I never confused them when Saeran was alive. Why do twins need to look so much alike? I’m not interested in bastardizing my precious memories of Saeran with fleeting fantasies when I’m with his brother; I’m not willing to rewrite the history so vividly burned into me with recent memories of Saeyoung and my overactive imagination.

Kimchi prepared and jarred, I open up the curtains and start lining the jars up on the windowsill. The sun has almost completely gone down by this point, so the kimchi won’t be ready until tomorrow or the day after. It needs the warmth of the sun to properly ferment, after all.

“Ready to eat?” He’s sitting on the floor, back pressed against my bedframe and a pair of chopsticks in his hand. 

“It needs time to ferment. We can eat it in a few days.”

“I want to eat right meow, though.” He keeps clicking the tips together after every word.

“You need to be patient. Just come visit me again later this week.”

Saeyoung drops the over-dramatic pouty expression he had been displaying and it morphs into a look of genuine guilt. Watching his face transform so fluidly from his persona to unguarded honesty made me feel like I was watching the mask melt from his face like a cascade. My stomach flips at the thought of this being my one and final chance to see Saeyoung before he disappears back to the life he won’t divulge.

“What?” My voice rises with panic, “You can’t come back?”

“I have - it’s not guarant... I just have some stuff to do later this week.” He awkwardly stutters out the two half sentences before finishing, seemingly tripping over his own divergent thoughts. 

“Next week, then?” I press.

“I’m not sure I’ll be in town…” He speaks with more confidence, but in a hushed tone; like he was deliberately lying to me and hoped his low volume wouldn’t betray his insincerity. 

“Oh.” 

I didn’t have any way to combat that. With no argument, I slump beside him, feeling defeated and guilty that I had spent one of my last days with Saeyoung flip-flopping on his true identity, intentionally assigning his dead brother’s persona to him, and treating him all around horribly. 

Beside me, Saeyoung whips out his cell phone, unlocks it and opens up his camera gallery. A series of black screens with green text appear, and I watch him type in a string of text, faster than I had thought it was possible to type on mobile. He scrolls through some photos, humming absently before a small “Aha!” escapes his lips and he holds up the screen for me to view.

A photograph from four or five years ago. Saeyoung’s hands are in the air, as the movement of the carnival ride lifted his bangs and hair from his face, and his mouth is wide open in a delighted grin, an almost manic expression in his eyes. Beside him, I sat, hands gripping the metal bar of the cart in front of me, fear and queasiness dominating my expression and strong winds pushing back my cheeks to flap like jowls in the wind. 

The Face Splitter! That over-the-top, twisting and turning carnival ride that Saeyoung insisted I ride with him shortly after I lost all my money on the Ball Toss trying to win that starfish plush for Saeran. I hated that ride, but Saeyoung blackmailed me into riding it by threatening to stash my cell phone in the girls’ locker room. Saeran refused to even step foot on it and instead held our bags and plushies as he munched some cotton candy. 

“Who took this?” I had never seen this photo before, and my voice conveys my bewilderment. 

“Who do you think?” His response was wistful, with a serene quality to his voice that suggests he isn’t really here, he’s reliving the memory encapsulated in this photograph. 

“Saeran took this?” my breath caught in my throat at the thought.

“Yeah, I gave him the camera since he didn’t want to ride the Face Splitter. I didn’t know he took this until after…”

After his death. I didn’t need Saeyoung to finish the sentence to understand his meaning. Seeing this photograph made me feel like there were aspects of Saeran that I didn’t even get to experience. The thought that I had missed out on seeing these different sides of him made tears well up in my eyes until I could no longer see the image in front of me save for its colours: the light blue of the sky behind us, red from Saeyoung’s hair, and the teal of my pullover sweater. 

“I miss him, too,” Saeyoung breathes out beside me. His arm snakes over my shoulders, as I lean on him so I can get closer to his phone screen. 

“Yeah,” I respond absently, then turn to face Saeyoung, “but I’m glad I got to see you, again.” I find that I mean it.

The Choi boys convey everything through their eyes. This is the second time I think this today as I take in the candid expression on Saeyoung’s face; lips slightly parted as he exhales from his mouth, eyebrows furrowed. His eyes, though... His eyes remind me of that day behind the giant cross statue in the garden of our high school, it reminds me of Saeran’s eyes, and it reminds me of the consuming look he used to fix me with when we kissed. I recall Saeran’s apologetic nature, as he continued to push the boundaries of our relationship, emotionally and sexually, and the faint reminder in his eyes that I was his prey. 

I’m unsure what he saw in my eyes as I existed momentarily in the frozen memory of my first kiss with Saeran. Perhaps he had seen my desire awakened from recollection, or heard the earnestness in my voice when I spoke last, or maybe… he only saw what he wanted to see, much like myself this entire day.

It doesn't matter what he saw, because then, Saeyoung leans forward and our lips meet.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [Blackprose](https://blackprose.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and [@LikelyRogue](https://twitter.com/LikelyRogue) on Twitter. Hit me up to chat.
> 
> My wonderful friend Hayley ([Ijaeli-art](http://ijaeli-art.tumblr.com/) on tumblr) created this absolutely stunning piece of [artwork](http://ijaeli-art.tumblr.com/post/159252962593/youre-the-only-person-who-took-the-time-to-try) for me based on the first chapter of the fic . Please show her some love!
> 
> While I am aiming for regular Sunday updates, the next chapter is... well, daunting and I've recruited the help of a popular yooran writer for assistance ;) Look forward to it, guys, but I can't promise it'll be ready for next sunday. We'll see.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *silently changes rating from mature to explicit* buckle up, kiddos.

The night that Saeran had come over for dinner with my family was the night I lost my virginity. I hadn’t had any experience before; the only exposure I’d had to sex was porn (admittedly, straight porn,) but luckily, Saeran captained this ship. After he had asked me to prom, I was so overjoyed I climbed onto his lap with an unfettered degree of confidence, an act so unlike the shy high school kid I was. He kissed me slowly and softly, like he thought I would shatter underneath his touch. One of his hands twisted into the back of my hair and the other rested lightly on the back of my neck as he lifted us from the loveseat and gingerly laid me on the floor of the rec room in my parents’ basement. Saeran climbed over top of me, trying his hardest to minimize the time our lips spent apart, and introduced a new element to this game of sexual enlightenment as he lowered his hips on mine and slowly began to push our crotches together between the fabric of our jeans.

It didn’t take long for the first article of clothing to be removed: his shirt. Next came my shirt and pants, then his pants (that he hastily kicked so far they landed half off the dusty and unused elliptical machine behind us) and more and more until we were both down to our underwear. My breath was coming out in broken pants, and I could feel Saeran’s own jagged breathing against my lips. The thought that he was as nervous as I was sent a thrill through me.

His hands started to explore my body cautiously, but with a hint of desperation. I don’t remember who started the grinding again, but all I know is that the feeling of our crotches rubbing together through two thin layers of fabric was almost too much to handle. I was already moaning into Saeran’s mouth desperately, even before he pushed down my boxers and tossed them aside along with his own. 

I was surprised when Saeran pulled away and crawled off me, and let out a whine in protest. He grinned lopsidedly at me as he reached for his jacket, which was lying on the floor, and pulled two things out of the pocket.

“What are you doing?” I asked in confusion, pushing myself up onto my elbows. He didn’t respond; just shuffled back over and showed me the bottle of lube and condom in his hand. I blushed furiously. The presence of these items confirmed my suspicions, I was about to lose my virginity.

I remember wondering why he had those in his pocket. I thought maybe he’d been expecting this to happen with me tonight, and my stomach had flipped at the thought of him thinking this far ahead.

Now, I know it was because he used them regularly with other people.

He prepared me first with his fingers, pushing inside me using the lube, and clamped his hand over my mouth to stop me from mewling too loudly and alerting my parents. In the heat of the moment, I think I bit his hand a little, but he didn’t seem to mind. I watched in awe as he rolled on the condom and spread some of the lube on his dick before leaning over me and positioning himself. This was much more real than the banana we had to practice putting condoms on in sex ed at school.

“This might hurt a little,” he warned. I nodded, throat too parched to speak. 

He leaned down and kissed me as he pushed inside, which was fortunate because his mouth muffled the squeaks and whimpers unknowingly escaping my throat. Saeran had prepared me for the possibility of it being painful, but he hadn’t warned me of the  _ kind  _ of stretching pain I would be feeling. It hurt, definitely, but in a good way. The way Saeran moved made me feel whole, and with every thrust, I felt an overwhelming sense of love shoot right through to my core.

It didn’t take long before I was close to finishing, and it was clear Saeran could tell, because he kissed me harder to muffle my noises. He grabbed hold of my hand, pressing it down next to my head as he laced our fingers together. He reached down and grabbed my cock with his other hand, pumping a few times as he kissed me sloppily. I squeezed his hand and scratched desperately at his back as I came hard, moaning a garbled mess of words into his mouth. Despite my exhilaration,  I still had enough energy to feel embarrassed that I had cum so quickly, but then I heard his grunts and whimpers start getting more erratic and figured he must be getting close, too. He pulled out of the kiss, panting heavily as his movements stuttered.

“Y-Yoosung,” he moaned softly into my ear as he thrust into me two more times before shuddering to a stop. My hand slid up to stroke through his hair as he pulled out and collapsed on top of me. I let out a small giggle, and he rolled off so he was lying next to me.

“I’ve never done that before,” Saeran said. 

“That’s not true,” I pointed out in a matter-of-fact tone, and would have wiggled my index finger had they not been interlaced with Saeran’s, “You told me you’ve had sex before.”

“Yeah, but…” 

“Hm? But what?”

“Yoosung, there’s a difference.”

“What? How? I mean… it’s all just sex, right?”

At that, Saeran laughed bitterly and shook his head. 

“No, they’re different. There’s a big difference between fucking somebody and... what we just did.”

“What did we just do?”

“M-made love,” he mumbled under his breath, a blush staining his cheeks pink. My heart ached uncomfortably as I indulged in the cute expression on Saeran’s face. Of course, he chose now of all times to get flustered. 

“What?” I had heard what he said, but I lied anyway, just so I could hear him say it again.

“Ugh, you’re doing this on purpose.” As always, he saw right through me. “We made love. Happy?”

I nuzzled my face into his chest, my body flush against his side, my fingers interlaced with his and his free arm around my shoulders, holding me close. I could feel the tips of his nails digging into my right shoulder, but didn’t care enough to mention it. I was too content to say anything, warm and safe, as Saeran held me as close as he could. I listened to the rhythmic thump of his heartbeat slow. 

_ Thump. Thump. Thump. _

What a beautiful sound. I’d never been close enough to anyone to hear this. It made him feel… human. He was no longer Saeran Choi, the boy who looked so broken sitting in the corner of the cafeteria; he was no longer Saeran Choi, the boy who reluctantly became my friend at my implacable insistence; he had evolved into Saeran Choi, my boyfriend.  _ Mine.  _ And in that moment, I couldn’t help but think that all the rare LOLOL loot in the world would pale in comparison to the treasure I had discovered. 

I didn’t hear Saeran speak. I only heard the rumble in his chest as he spoke.

“Hmm?”

“Yoosung, don’t fall asleep,” he repeated.

I didn’t listen. 

When I woke up 30 minutes later, Saeran had wiped my chest clean of my orgasm, dressed himself and sat length-wise on the loveseat. He had resumed playing Mario Party without me and switched Yoshi, my character, into CPU mode. When he noticed me stir, his lips lifted up into a shy smirk and he dropped the controller onto his lap so he could slide to the floor beside me. I was still undressed and half asleep, a lazy lopsided smile on my face as I attempted to appear more coherent than I was. Saeran leaned in to gift me with a quick kiss, but I lifted my hand to hold the back of his neck, much like he had done to me earlier. Obviously surprised, Saeran muttered a soft ‘oh’ into my lips and kissed me deeper, and I felt my body respond in kind.

“Down, boy,” I muttered sleepily into Saeran’s lips.

“What?” he tittered, “Who are you talking to?”

“Oh…” still dazed from my impromptu nap, I gazed down between my legs, to the stiffening item between them that was poking through the blanket Saeran had draped over top of me, “N-no one.”

“Are you talking to your dick?” Saeran sounded incredulous as he continued to chortle, a high-pitched raspy sound that I wouldn’t have thought he’d have. 

“N-no!”

Saeran continued to laugh at me, as I lifted the blanket above my head to hide the heat I felt in my face. Instantaneously I felt very much awake, my hazy sleepiness retreating in an instant, like fog in a strong breeze. 

After a few minutes Saeran’s laughter died down and all I heard was an indiscriminate rumbling as he stood up and walked away. I poked my head outside my blanket shield and immediately greeted my boxers as Saeran threw them at my face.

“What did you do that for?” I roughly yanked my boxers off my face and pulled them under the blankets, desperate to clothe myself again and regain some dignity. 

“You’re just goofy.” He smiled at me, a radiant and unmasked smile that left me feeling winded. “You make me so happy.”

After that, Saeran pushed me down, exposed my erect cock, and took it in his hand, causing me to gasp and buck up into him, forgetting my embarrassment entirely. I don’t remember when, but at some point he climbed up and straddled me as his hand started pumping. He carefully shuffled backwards, his face hidden by his red hair as he gazed at my erection in awe, almost as though he were admiring it. It took him a few seconds before he finally leaned down and pressed his lips against the tip. He hovered there for a moment before sliding his mouth down around me, encompassing me in a wet warmth as he worked his tongue around the head and shaft to make me feel good. I arched up into him and moaned, desperately reaching down to knot my fingers in his hair and push myself deeper into his throat. I looked down at him, watching his head bob up and down as I guided him in the way I wanted.

He lifted his head for a moment when my fingers tugged at his hair, and our eyes met.

The memory sputtered and came to a stop, much like an old film reel reaching its end. As if I knew deep down that that final particular sex act did not, in fact, happen with Saeran. It happened with someone else. Someone almost identical in appearance. 

I am assaulted with the invasive memory of Saeyoung’s burning stare that he had fixed me with last night shortly before we kissed, and the all-consuming and dominating look in his eyes that mimicked Saeran’s so perfectly it constricted my chest and accelerated my heart beat. 

_ What _ did I do?

All I can picture is the deep and darkening amber in Saeyoung’s eyes as he unbuttoned the top button of my dress pants and ran his fingertips lightly across my stomach and pelvis. 

I sigh audibly and peek an eye open. My bed is empty save for myself and my numerous pillows - no obnoxiously redheaded reminder of my most recent mistake. I roll over, grasping the corner of my stained and sweat-drenched bedsheets, and pull them over my head. Being inside the safety of the blankets provides little relief as the air grows stifling, and the sweet Choi boy smell that clings to them permeates my safe space. It’s comforting and nauseating simultaneously. 

What  _ did  _ I do?

I should have stopped him, then and there. I should have pushed him off and asked him to leave, or at least asked his reason behind kissing me. Even when I lifted my hands with the intention of doing exactly that, they fell limp at my sides instead, feeling numb and disconnected from my body as I focused only on Saeyoung’s hands as they roamed my most sensitive areas. 

It had been so long since someone had kissed me, so long since I had let myself be kissed. In that moment, I knew what I was doing, much like I assume Saeyoung knew. I knew we were pushing the boundaries of the relationship too far, that we were blurring the clear cut distinction between best friend and lovers. While I love Saeyoung, and always had loved him, it was not the kind of love I had for Saeran, and… perhaps, in my utter foolishness, I thought that I could reach for that love, ephemeral and constantly out of my reach, by returning Saeyoung’s kisses.

And, for a brief second, I tricked myself into thinking that maybe it had worked. Maybe I really _ could _ reach the love I so desperately craved if I just allowed myself to take it. So, my limp hands slid to Saeyoung’s waist and I pulled him closer, our mouths opening and begging each other for more. Our tongues slid together, and not only did I allow Saeyoung to grab hold of me, I also grabbed hold of him.

As always, the Choi boys took what they wanted from me as I submitted myself to them. 

What did  _ I _ do?

Sometime during my fleeting memory, I began stroking myself lazily through the fabric of my sheets, silently and unknowingly enjoying the cool rub of silky sheets against my skin as I indulge in the minute pleasurable sensation creeping up my spine and erecting goosebumps on my skin.  Once I become cognizant of this motion, that was being fueled directly by the memories of my sexual encounters with both Choi twins, I rip my hand away as if I was handling a venomous snake, and lace my fingers behind my head, determined that the next time my mind wanders, my hands will remain stationary.  My cock twitches and I spot a small darkening of pre-cum at the tip, soaking into my bed sheet. 

I inhale deeply, trying to think of anything to deflate my erection. My landlord. My mom. The time I stubbed my toe at work on the dishwasher. My coworkers? My cute coworker. My cute coworker asking me out as I stuttered and blushed relentlessly before outright rejecting her. Yep, smooth move, Yoosung. It’s not like I wanted to date anyway. I haven’t been able to even feel romantic attraction to someone since Saeran. The part of me that craved romantic love is like a finicky wind-up toy; you can turn that crank all you want, but in the end, there just might not be any response. And, in this particular case, everybody I tried to date or kiss since Saeran felt hollow and emotionless. I was screaming in an echo chamber for somebody to love me, and was only met with resounding silence, despite there being a person attached to that particular set of lips. 

But kissing Saeyoung felt different. It must have been because I had always loved him, my best friend, or because I hadn’t seen him for so long and he had changed so much and so little that I could convince myself he was a different person. Perhaps it was because when I kissed him, I swear I could taste the same lonely desperation on his skin and in his saliva. 

Excuse accepted, I succumbed to this needy desperation we shared. That was why I didn’t push him off me, that was why I opened my mouth when his tongue flicked against my lips, that’s why I moaned into our sloppy kisses when he finally freed my cock from my boxers as I gasped, but remained otherwise speechless, as he touched me. 

What did I  _ do _ ?

My hands crawl from the back of my neck into my hair as I tug it hard enough to jar myself back into reality. I blubber my lips as I sigh and curse myself for my enjoyable, self-destructive mistakes. Clearly, trying to change my train of thought isn’t helping. Abruptly, I scramble from my bed to my feet, convincing myself a shower will wash away the sweet smell of Saeyoung combined with my own unshowered musk; which, when mixed together, smell sour and unpleasant. 

The overhead light in my bathroom is overbearing and unnaturally bright. I purposely avoid my reflection in the bathroom mirror, knowing I’d only be greeted with sex-tousled hair and dark bags under my eyes as I pointedly ignore my blemished skin and swollen lips. I know what I look like after sex, because when I had sex with Saeran, he’d describe my face and hair as he kissed each spot, as if he was documenting it. Back then, I felt this engrossing warmth and fuzziness after sex, akin to an afterglow. However, now, no such aura envelops me, and the world outside my sheets feels abrasive, cold, and oddly judgmental, like I needed to cover up the shameful secret tattooed on my body. 

The showerhead spurts to life as I watch water patter on the tiled floor. I stick my hand out, enduring the chill of ice cold water as I lose feeling in my fingertips. Cautiously, I tap the pads of my index finger and thumb together, surprised and somewhat jealous that I couldn’t feel their meeting. If only it was as simple to turn off all feelings. The water begins to slowly warm until it’s bearable enough for me to step in. I hold my breath and close my eyes as I face the showerhead directly, and wish my sins will wash away with the water.

What the  **fuck** did I do? 

I turn the shower knob one inch to the left. Boiling water sterilizes bacteria and I am determined to wash away all traces of Saeyoung on my skin before I leave this spot.

Almost immediately after our kiss, I pulled back and removed his glasses, making some half-hearted excuse about them being in the way before gripping hold of his hair and roughly pulling him into another kiss. If I closed my eyes and ignored the subtle differences in how he smelled, and ignored how much coarser his hair was than Saeran’s, I could imagine that I wasn’t kissing Saeyoung at all. 

I turn the hot water up, trying to wash that thought away.

My mind wanders back to the memory of Saeran - no, Saeyoung - sucking me off once we’d made it from the floor to my bed. He was the one who initiated it, dragging his fingers down my sides as he pushed me onto my back and kissed me with such unhindered recklessness it made me feel guilty for picturing someone else. His hair had hidden his face as he took me in his mouth.  Eye contact broken and guilt dissolved, I no longer had to feel bad, because it really  _ was  _ Saeran between my legs.

Yet as soon as our eyes met, reality sliced through me like a cold blade. Shame interfered with my pleasure, so to avoid it I pushed his head down so I didn’t have to look at him anymore. He and Saeran had the same eyes, but at the same time they were completely different. I couldn’t look at Saeyoung as he kneeled in front of me, head between my legs in a way Saeran’s never had been. But if I imagined hard enough, I could pretend.

I turn the hot water up again, ignoring the urge to touch myself.

Eventually, I found myself tugging at Saeran’s sweater and t-shirt to pull them off as he sucked, only to be greeted with the unfriendly reminder that this wasn’t Saeran at all. This body was more solid and unblemished than Saeran’s. Saeyoung’s voice wasn’t the same, either, so I quickly pulled him forwards to make him kiss my neck instead. I needed to keep his mouth busy so he wouldn't talk and I wouldn't have to acknowledge my shattering fantasy held together by threads and willpower. I started moaning under the hot, wet feeling of his saliva, and clutched hold of his hair desperately, biting back the words on my tongue lest I begin to beg him to fuck me.

I turn the hot water up and try to control my thoughts.

The image of Saeyoung as he peeled off his jeans burned itself into my mind. It was the moment I realised I couldn’t go searching for Saeran in someone else, not even his identical twin brother. The moment I knew that if I wanted to love again, I needed to allow Saeyoung to remain as himself.

I knew these realisations hadn’t stuck with me when I asked him to fuck me from behind.

He hadn’t asked why, and I felt for a second as though maybe a part of him knew exactly what I was doing. He just asked me where I kept lube and condoms (bottom drawer in the bedside table) and rolled me over. His hands rested on my hips for a moment, pulling me up to make me arch my back, with my ass in the air ready for him to do as he pleased. I gasped and shuddered at the familiar feeling of a lubed finger sliding inside me. Saeran gently slid it in and out a few times until I started begging for more, and he finally complied and slid in a second finger. I pushed back against them, burying my face into my pillow to muffle my noises.

“Are you sure about this?”

Saeyoung’s voice shattered the illusion, and I suddenly felt furious that he’d ruin this for me.

“Yes,” I said through gritted teeth.

Saeyoung slowly slid in a third finger, clearly trying to be caring and gentle, but by this point, I was frustrated. I just wanted him to fuck me.

“Sae-Saeyoung,” I said, stumbling as I almost used the wrong name. “Just do it.”

I turn the hot water up a little more, even though it’s already scorching my skin.

Saeyoung finally put on the condom, and I felt him pressing against my entrance. As soon as he had pushed into me slightly, I slammed myself backwards, taking him in fully straight away. Saeyoung gasped.

“Y-Yoosung,” he growled. When he moaned, he almost sounded like Saeran, and I screwed my eyes shut to try and ignore every tiny detail that reminded me that this  _ wasn’t  _ Saeran. His hands gripped hold of my hips and he started off slowly, but I was impatient. I started pushing myself against him desperately, trying to find an angle that would make him fill me in the same way Saeran used to. He moaned again, the sound low enough that it worked to fuel my pretense, but then he spoke.

“You feel so good.”

I moaned as the praise sent shockwaves through me, but it was  _ Saeyoung  _ saying this, so I had to stop him.

“No dirty talk,” I panted. I could pretend it just wasn’t my thing. He gripped hold of my hips tightly in response, and started thrusting harder. I stopped trying to control my noises, figuring that if I made enough, I could cover the sounds coming from behind me. Most of the noises I made were incoherent moans, whimpers, and curses, but if you listened closely, you’d be able to hear Saeran’s name mixed in there, too.

I turn the water up. I need to wash this away.

He started getting rougher, digging his fingernails into my hips harder and pounding into me, and I responded in what I expected was exactly the way he wanted. At one point, he leaned forward and pressed his chest against my back so he could bite down on my shoulder, making me cry out. My entire body felt as though it were lost in the haze between pain and pleasure, and the sound of his heavy pants in my ear sent fire coursing through my veins.

I turn the heat of the water up again, but find that my other hand has found it’s way to my cock.

He reached down and took hold of my cock in one of his hands, pumping feverishly as I whined and whimpered underneath him. I could feel that I was getting close, and I knew he could tell too. He only needed to pump a few times before I felt the coil of heat in my body snap and explode, and I cried out more loudly than I ever have during an orgasm. He continued thrusting and pumping until I was entirely finished - every last drop either soaking the bed sheets or coating his hand. He then thrust into me a few more times and let out a broken moan, and I felt his body jerk as he released inside me. It felt visceral and disgusting. I covered my mouth in my pillow to hide my obvious gagging. This wasn’t what it was like with Saeran. Not at all. 

He wrapped his arms around my torso and his thrusts came to a shuddering halt, both of us panting and breathing heavily as our sweaty bodies pressed together. Afterwards Saeyoung tried to hold me, but I swatted his hands away, too overstimulated and anxiety-ridden to handle his affection. 

I don’t turn the heat up again. Instead, I think of the feeling of ecstasy that washed over me mere hours ago, as my hand pumps up and down my cock. I focus on the ache in my ass and remember how it felt to have someone fuck me again - finally, after all this time. 

In this moment, I finally realise what Saeran had meant all those years ago when he’d said there was a difference between fucking someone and making love to them.  _ That  _ was why I couldn’t fully picture Saeran while I was having sex. Saeran had made love to me, but Saeyoung had fucked me.

Maybe Saeyoung  _ does  _ love me, I don’t know, but I push the thought out of my mind as quickly as it arrives and continue pumping, pushing myself closer and closer to a release that will only make me feel worse.

When my orgasm hits me, I moan and shudder, but it’s pathetically halfhearted compared to how I felt with Saeyoung last night. I watch as the pitiful stream of cum dribbles from my cock and lands on the floor of the shower, some of it dripping on my hand, and I feel none of the satisfaction I did with either Saeran  _ or  _ Saeyoung.

I read somewhere that it takes seven years for you to replace every cell in your body. In these past four years alone, I have let both the Choi twins touch me. That means the same body I let Saeran touch, I also gave to Saeyoung. That thought turns my stomach painfully, and I can feel acid in the back of my throat as I dry heave. My entire body shakes and my knees collapse from under me as I fall to the slick and hard tiled floor with a loud crash. I can’t even focus on the pain in my knees, which is unbearable, because I’m dealing with a worse kind of pain; my stomach persistently committed to existing outside my body. If I had eaten anything else last night, I would undoubtedly be greeting that same meal again, but all that comes out is a long trail of saliva which washes away quickly. Down the drain it went, unmourned, known to and remembered by me alone.

The skin on my hands is red, exposed and sensitive. I should probably lower the water temperature. Instead, I slowly watch steam rise from the ground up, transfixed by the raspy little clouds engulfing this entire space like a blanket and I consider how accurately the foggy bathroom mirrors my muddled thoughts.

“What did I do?”

In my mind, I’m repeating the same question over and over until the chorus dies down and I finally feel strong enough to acknowledge the answer within me. Water cascades through my fingers, creating a tiny current. I focus too hard on the stream trickling away and disappearing into the drain, willing myself to melt into it so I could disappear, too.

What did I do? I fucked my best friend, that’s what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [Blackprose](https://blackprose.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and [@LikelyRogue](https://twitter.com/LikelyRogue) on Twitter. Hit me up to chat.
> 
> A big thank you to [Ely](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ely) who helped me write this chapter! It literally would not exist without them. <3
> 
> I appreciate all your comments everyone! While I don't respond to all, please know how much I adore receiving them. They give me inspiration!
> 
> As always, look forward to next Sunday.


	5. Chapter 5

On my second last day in Korea, I decided that it’s time to add a new section to this scrapbook of the Choi twins. I titled the blank page: ‘The eighteen events that led to my life changing forever’ and began writing.

1.

I don’t know how Saeyoung did it. I don’t know how he managed to change my life. Did he know what he was doing, or did he just act on behalf of himself? Either way, I’m grateful. If it weren’t for him, I might have never healed, and forever let this gaping, festering hurt after losing Saeran grow until it consumed me like a black hole.

After day one - after my biggest mistake - Saeyoung left. After he came and pulled out of me, he noticed I continued to sit there on my hands and knees, unmoving and face shoved into the pillow. He tried to wrap his arms around my waist, tried to kiss my shoulder blades, but I responded by bucking suddenly and elbowing him in the face, albeit accidentally. I didn’t want to hurt him; I just wanted him to stop touching me. Each time his skin grazed mine, I could feel myself wretching, as if he was poison seeping into my heart.

“Don’t touch me!” Despite the pillow absorbing most of the sound, my words maintained their sharp edge.

Saeyoung slid off the bed, clothed himself and sat on the edge of the mattress, watching me. I could see half his face as I peered from above my pillow; he looked ashamed and vulnerable. He reached out his hand, fingers outstretched, then drew them back hesitantly midway between us.

“What did I do?” he said out loud, and I wondered for a moment if I was broadcasting my thoughts that succinctly, or if he’d developed telepathy.

I didn’t know if his question was rhetorical, but I didn’t have any type of response. I lifted my body up shakily, feeling unsteady and weak. When I tried to stand, I collapsed onto the floor instead, right on top of the discarded set of chopsticks Saeyoung was using recently when he wanted to eat the unfermented kimchi we made together. Angrily, I kicked the chopsticks away and grabbed onto the edge of the bed, determined to stand and make my way to the washroom; not because I needed to clean (but maybe I should) but because I desperately needed a door in between myself and Saeyoung.

My attempts to stand continued to fail; and eventually, Saeyoung seemed to snap out of whatever trance was holding him as he hooked his hands under my arms and hoisted me to my feet.

“Where do you need to go?” he whispered quietly.

I considered bucking again and hitting him, but that would only make me fall and after my previous falls and the sex, my knees felt worse for wear. I begrudgingly accepted his help and leaned into him as he supported my bodyweight.

“Bathroom,” I croaked.

I found it difficult to meet his eyes and when I finally worked up the courage to, I noticed he was avoiding eye contact, as well. Awkward tension permeated the air as he guided me to the washroom, and I felt a creeping anger light inside me. Why did he kiss me if he was ashamed of me? Why did he initiate everything he did if he just didn’t want to look me in the eye? Was I that ugly? Did I have guilt written on my face? Or worse, did I have Saeran’s name written on my face? Was it painted on my lips? My eyes? My words? Did he know that I was thinking about Saeran when we… when we...?

When we finally reach the bathroom, I flung myself from his grasp and braced on the bathroom sink, running the water and rinsing out my mouth to rid myself of Saeyoung’s lingering taste on my tongue.

“What can I do to help, Yoosung?”

Immediately, I thought that the best thing he could do was to leave me alone, yet I bit the words on my tongue. Despite this… this mistake, I didn’t want to lose him. Not Saeyoung, not again after all these years. I still needed him, my best friend.

Instead of responding, I leaned forward and splashed my face with cold water. The chill invigorated me, and filled me with momentary energy.  I stood straight up and my eyes caught Saeyoung’s in the bathroom mirror as I pointedly avoid my own eyes and face, understanding that I wasn’t strong enough to acknowledge the sight of my own reflection. Not right now.

In this harsh light, I could see his swollen lips as he licked them nervously, hands fidgeting in his sweater pocket.  His lips glistened with saliva and I’m suddenly back there, itching to relive my own mistakes and taste him again.

I couldn’t keep watching him as he reflected everything I was feeling. I averted my gaze; my grip tightening on the edges of the bathroom sink, and water dripping down my face.

“Can you come back for kimchi next week?”

“Well-”

“Yes or no, Saeyoung - or do you want to still be called Luciel?” I tried to reign in the venom, but it dripped out anyway.

“I want to be called Saeyoung,” he whispered, and it echoed in this small space.

“Are you coming back for kimchi?”

“I…”

“Yes, or no.” I was begging for an answer, but I found that I couldn’t decide which I’d rather hear more.

“No.”

I lifted my eyes up again and met his reflected in the mirror. I could feel my gaze smouldering and boring into him as I clenched my teeth. It had become a battle; who would break eye contact first? Saeyoung looked so tormented inside. The Choi boys say everything through their eyes and his eyes read shame, hesitance and… something else I couldn’t quite place. The thought crossed my mind for a fleeting moment that maybe Saeyoung loved me, and I choked it down with my deep breathing. Even if he did love me, it was pointless.

He averted his eyes first and I was so relieved that the momentary energy granted from the cold water slipped out of me. I tightened my grip on the sink as I collapsed. Saeyoung rushed over yet again, and cradled me in his arms as we sank to the cold, tiled bathroom floor together. I began to cry, burying my face into his sweater and inhaling his smell, which elicited both pain and comfort within me.

“What did I do?” I repeated over and over into his sweater. “Are we still friends? Are you still my friend? I ruined everything.”

“We’re still friends,” He reassured me, smoothing my sweat slicked hair and pushing it away from my face.

“W-will you c-come b-back… next w-week for k-kimchi?” I stumbled over my sentence, trying to suppress sobs and blatantly failing.

He leaned forward and kissed me softly on the forehead. His lips on my skin made me feel loved, albeit momentarily.

“I’ll try.”

That was enough for me. I felt all the anxiety wracking my body flow out as my limbs go limp in his embrace; the second time tonight his touch caused that.

“Thank goodness,” I murmured. “You’re still my best friend, Saeyoung.”

He lifted me up. I could feel his arm muscles on my shoulder and neck as I curled in his arms and tucked my head close to my chest. I should have felt guilty, and I remember I did in the morning, but for now… for now I indulged in him and I lifted my head slightly, kissing him on the collarbone. Even if I was broken, I wanted to make Saeyoung feel loved, too. It was the least I could do after I used him in such a disgusting way.

Next thing I remember, my pillows soft and plush under my head, and the blanket swaddling me. He tucked me into bed. But I didn't feel the dent in the mattress as he sat beside me. I didn't feel the familiar glow of his presence.

“Saeyoung, where are you going?” I called out, and spotted his hunched figure by the doorway. He turned back and I swear I could see an apology swimming in his eyes and crossing his lips as he grimaced at me from across the room.

“I’ve got to go now. Luciel has things to do.”

2.

When I returned to work, I’m unable to wear the happy, carefree Yoosung mask I always donned. I’m deary, slouching and slow on my feet. My first day back I slammed right into my cute coworker, causing her to drop the wine glass and chicken parmigiana order she was carrying. I apologized profusely, and offered to help her pick it up. She was grateful, but her smile dropped when I fake smile her way and her eyes slid to my neck.

“What?” I immediately lifted my hand, patting my skin for whatever she was staring at.

“I thought you weren’t interested in dating. I guess you’re just not interested in me.” She quickly gathered up the remaining dishes and swished away, her long brown hair trailing behind her as she walked.

When I finished cleaning up the mess, I darted for the washroom, perplexed by her reaction. Then, I came face to face with the reality of my mistake. Dark red splotches, trailing down the left side of my neck; the side I pushed Saeyoung to when I wanted to keep his mouth busy. Dammit, why did I avoid my own reflection after my mistake? Saeran never left any marks on me when we made out or had sex. He always said it looked too much like a bruise, and he had seen too many of those in his lifetime. He refused to leave bites or marks on my skin. I’m ashamed that I never once considered that Saeyoung wouldn’t share that same view.

I popped the collar of my uniform and continued working my shift. My cute co-worker seemed to have disappeared shortly after our encounter, and I was tasked with covering her tables at the restaurant. The chicken parmigiana I spilled intended to go to a rather important business contact and his fiancee. With his meal now late, I briefly wondered what type of punishment I’d receive from management. To remedy the situation, I quickly brought the client a generous glass of red wine to make up for the one I spilled.

“For you, sir.” I set it down in front of him.

“Was that blunder your mistake?” the man responded, gesturing vaguely with his hands to the wet floor sign I placed. He has perfectly styled black hair and grey eyes. When he looked at me, I felt insignificant and heavily judged.

“Oh… yes,” I admitted. “I’ve brought you a free glass of wine to make up for it. My apologies.” I bowed deeply.

“I’m already reconsidering this investment.”

“Oh, Ju-Ju! Give this place a chance,” A woman cooed beside him. Her voice was shrill and her hair is a gaudy shade of pink. From where I was standing, I saw the roots of her hair showing through. For a woman with such an expensive purse (even I can recognize the brand Gucci), she didn't seem to care much about appearances. She reached for the wine glass before he had a chance to grasp it, his fingers instead reaching for air. He looked positively annoyed.

When she handed the drink back to him, a hint of disgust passed his face as I watched his mouth dip into a frown before he politely refuses, persona up once more. I wondered if that’s what I look like when I wear my happy Yoosung mask.

“Another drink, garçon.” He commanded me, without even looking. This is a family restaurant. No one calls waiters that here. Where does this guy think he is, a michelin star restaurant?

As I walked away from the table, I could hear their conversation.

“You don’t want to share, sweetie?” she purred, and her fake nails tapped against the edge of the table.

“No.”

I filled up the wine glass, glancing up from behind the bar. Even from here, I can feel the tension between this couple. He’s well-dressed, handsome and coiffed. She’s garish and peacocking, wearing all sorts of extravagant colours. She leaned forward to grab his hand and he whipped it away, opting to use the phone he pulled from his pocket. She visibly pouted and crossed her arms over her chest.

“So cold. You’ll need to get used to me being around, honey. I’ll be your wife, after all.”

“The only reason you are here is because my father insisted you join me. What do you have to say about this establishment? Do you think it would be a wise investment?” His smirk told me that he was testing her. What was with this guy? Who takes a girl for a date and then treats her like she’s stupid?

“Oh, uh…” She glanced around as I approached the table, her eyes lighting up. “He’s back with your wine, honey bunny.” Each time she spoke, her pet names evolved.

“Garçon,” The man holds his phone up to me, showing me a steadily increasing line graph, “What can you tell me about this establishment's annual gross?”  

My jaw dropped. How am I supposed to answer that?

“Um… w-well, I’m just a waiter, so why don’t I get the boss for you?”  I offered, hoping to escape whatever was happening.

His face read: anger, annoyance and then acceptance as he silently berated himself.

“Yes, of course. Why would you know anything?”

Now, he had insulted me. To his credit, he appeared flustered. I wondered, briefly, if it was from the presence of that unbearably annoying woman.

The rest of their meal was consumed in awkward silence, only broken by my presence each time they called me over. By the end, he tipped me generously for my excellent service and smirked victoriously as he watched his companion fume visibly, mumbling about how that money would be put to better use in her wardrobe than on that waste of space.

“Nonsense, darling.” Every word he spoke was laced with sarcasm. “I value the space he consumes more than yours.”

3.

A month passed and I didn’t see Saeyoung, which, truthfully, was fortunate. I don’t know how well I could’ve handled seeing him; the literal embodiment of my biggest mistake. However, I was upset he broke his promise to me, and that kimchi remained uneaten.

My days became routine, and monotonous, much like my entire life since high school. Ever since Saeran died, it felt like I’ve lost the ability to see colour. Seeing Saeyoung, and reaching for Saeran through him, momentarily granted me that ability - but it was skewed, like I was looking at red and saw green instead.

4.

A week later I discovered my only clue that Saeyoung hadn’t disappeared from my life entirely.

When I approached my apartment door after work, exhausted and frustrated, from the difficult customers, I almost didn’t notice the small, white kitten robot sitting on my doorstep until I accidentally kicked it over and stumbled into my apartment.

“Meowy is activated, nya!” It’s voice was shrill and robotic, but sounded reminiscent of Saeyoung. Like his voice if he were female.

  
“What is…?” The words died on my tongue as the little kitten clunkily sauntered into my apartment.

“Meowy has come to deliver a message, meow.”

“Okay,” I said a little too slowly, emphasizing the entire word until it spanned a few seconds too long.

“Master has enrolled you in college, meow! You’ll learn how to take care of cuties like me, meow!”

At that moment, if I wasn’t closing the apartment door, I would have believed it were possible to drift off into space. Luckily, the cold metal of the doorknob in my grip grounded me as my vision swam. What? I’m not ready for college again; I can’t go back again; what if I fail? Or worse, what if I succeed and forget Saeran? What if everyone sees how broken I am? What if more people try to flirt with me and then hate me when I reject them?

“Wh-why did he do that, Meowy?” I stammered. Responding to a robot kitten was not on the list of things I wanted to that night.  I reached down to my feet, where Meowy had begun to circle in between my legs, much like a real cat. I needed to see if this was real, or if I was so exhausted, I had begun hallucinating.

Meowy mewled when I picked him - her? - it - up, and the cameras in its eyes focus as I watched its mechanical pupils dilate.

“Master wants to see you succeed, meow!”

“I can’t afford school.”

“Master has already paid for your first year.”

“What?!”

Meowy slipped through my fingertips and crashed to the floor with a loud clatter and the accompanying pitter of loose screws. I quickly slumped to the floor, collecting the three dislodged screws and cradled them in my palm like they would restore Meowy’s life. I watched Meowy’s mechanical eyes focus and refocus, reminding me of the zoom of a camera, and listened to the small, clunking whirrs. Did I just kill it?

“Meowy! Who’s your Master?” I crawled on my hands and knees, face dangerously close to the floor so I could get closer to Meowy, but not touch it. If it was dying, I didn't want my touch to be the last thing it remembers - if it can even feel. I’ve had enough of people or things remembering me before they…

“Luciel.” Meowy said softly, before the whirring stopped.

Remorse washed over me, and I find myself surprised at the tears dripping off my cheeks and onto the floor below me. I hadn’t even returned to school yet and I’ve already succeeded in killing a robotic kitten. Even if it wasn’t alive in the first place, why did its death make me so sorrowful?

Maybe because I had killed the only thing connecting me to my best friend. Maybe because it wasn’t the first thing between us that I killed by my own stupidity.

5.

Meowy doesn’t turn back on. So, I set it and the three small screws that popped out of it on my bedside table.

The kimchi sat forgotten on my windowsill.

Two reminders of Saeyoung’s recent presence in my life and two gaping wounds that echo my own thoughts; he isn’t coming back and it’s my fault.

  
6.

Sixty days after I had sex with Saeyoung, he shows up at the restaurant unexpectedly after work. How did he know when I was off? I tried questioning him, about his disappearance, about our relationship, but he just brushed them all aside with noncommittal jokes and presented a pair of theatre tickets to me. The name of the play was Promiscuous Jalapeño Topping. It sounded ridiculous and I immediately asked why on earth I’d ever want to see something titled after a vegetable.

He leaned in and brushed my lips with a small, shy kiss that I was too flustered to return. I immediately glanced through the large windows of the restaurant and see my cute co-worker, who was sweeping the floor, staring at us both. Her mouth set in a scowl and she turned around to continue her sweeping. Her agitated demeanor was easily readable in her hurried sweeps.  

The play was over-the-top and hard to follow, but in the darkness, Saeyoung’s hand found mine. Our fingers interlaced, and he squeezed my hand. I was relieved he didn’t hate me; but I felt nauseous that he might have wanted more than a friendship with me.

When we returned to my apartment that evening, I allowed him to enter through the door and find his way into my bed.

7.

A week later, he appeared again with tickets to another silly date: a tour of a local space station.

He wasn’t even able to enjoy the tour with me. Ten minutes in, his phone rang and he left to sort out a “work call,” while I awkwardly followed the tour guide around with a group of strangers, feeling very much alone.

It was a pitiful date, but we still fucked.

8.

Twenty days later, I started school. While it was rocky and hard to adjust to, I managed to make a few friends, somehow. They invited me over to their dorms for LOLOL nights and pizza. I saw a person who wasn’t broken reflected in their eyes and smiles when they looked at me. I was so grateful that I could tape together the pieces of my shattered self and appear normal.

They asked me if I was seeing anyone, and Saeyoung crossed my thoughts before I shook my head: “No, I’m single.”

9.

Saeyoung showed up once in awhile to ask me how school is going. He was relieved I was attending my classes, and he was eager to hear all my anecdotes. I got the vibe that he was trying to live vivaciously through me, but whenever I asked if he attended college, he ignored the question. 

At the end of our catch up sessions, Saeyoung praised me on a job well done and I fucked him.

10.

As time passed, Saeyoung stopped appearing with random date plans and instead showed up at my apartment, usually after I was off work. Sometimes, we didn’t even speak and allowed all our emotions and communication to be conveyed solely through our lips, fingertips, moans and sighs.

11.

At some point, the fucking turned into making love and I stopped seeing Saeran within him. I started loving him for who he was, and it’s fundamentally different than with Saeran. It never felt right, but it stopped feeling wrong.

12.

I cried after sex with Saeyoung. I was just so overwhelmed I could even feel love again. I’m afraid I worried him as he smoothed my hair and whispered in my ear about how much he cared for me.

13.

I learned about Japanese pottery from a friend of a friend. They spoke about how a broken vase isn’t discarded, it’s mended together with gold and it makes it more beautiful than before it had shattered. They turned their phone to me during their explanation to show me proof. Then, they apologized profusely as I unknowingly began to cry in front of them. But this time, it wasn’t due to sadness. It was joy. I resonated with this idea, whether it was true or not, and consider it a metaphor for my own existence.

I cried again that night because I can truly believe that I am beautiful and life hasn’t destroyed me.

For the first time since Saeran died.

14.

I hadn’t seen Saeyoung in weeks and a girl on campus asked me on a date. I didn’t refuse because Saeyoung and I aren’t together, despite the sex.

15.

My grades returned. I was the in top of most of my classes, except math. Saeran would have laughed if he heard that.

16.

The next time I saw Saeyoung, I rejected his advances. He looked hurt but the momentary flash in his eyes told me he understood. I didn’t bother to mention that I’ve started dating other people.

17.

The distance between my meetups with Saeyoung grows each time: three months, five months, six months, ten months, one year.

18.

This was the second last time I ever saw Saeyoung.  

He always manages to look the same and it’s comforting knowing that I have people in my life that remember me before I was broken. I pondered if he could see the self-worth I’ve only just rediscovered and I took the opportunity to thank him (for the millionth time) for believing in me, and for funding my schooling.

“I’m only this good because of you,” I told him, and it’s verbatim the note Saeran left me on his math test after I tutored him. Those words had impact then but now, they’re strong enough to move entire continents. How freeing it feels to believe in myself and live up to the belief my friends and family have in me.

And that's the end. The eighteen events that led to today.

It’s been over two years since I’ve seen Saeyoung. I’m reaching the end of my undergraduate degree. I’ll be receiving my bachelors in a few weeks and I’ve never felt more proud.

I don’t know why Saeyoung did what he did. I don’t know if I even fully understand why he kissed me that day. I don’t know why he insisted on spending more time with me after, despite my limited understanding that him just existing in my life was dangerous.

But, I can say this: if Saeyoung didn’t show up at the graveyard that day four years ago, I never would have succeeded the way I had. I had thought the worst I had to experience in life was Saeran’s funeral, but that wasn’t true, was it? The worst I had to experience was learning to live without him and maybe… learning to love without him.

I’m at the graveyard again. I neglected to plant any flowers this year, so Saeran’s grave is solemn and grey. The sky overhead is overcast. Dark, heavy clouds threatening to shower at any time. I sit on the ground I overturned years ago, but now the grass has invaded the space yet again. This time, I’m comforted by it rather than angered. It symbolizes growth and healing to me; and sometimes, no matter how hard we try, time forces us to heal. We can’t live in stasis.

I lean my head on the cold, unyielding marble and picture the warmth of Saeran’s body against mine, and the softness of his skin, despite its blemishes and bruises. The memories are fuzzier than I remember them being, and it’s likely because I haven’t thought of him in a long time.

“I wish we could’ve had a life together. I wish I could’ve saved you. I wish I made you happy enough to give life a second chance. I wish it didn’t hurt every time I remember you.”

Once I voice my wishes, they exist outside my body and I can see them disintegrate in the air and whisk away in the breeze.

“I wish I could keep loving you.” And there it is. My final wish.

“You should have let _me_ go a long time ago.”

Those words surprise me, because they sound so much like Saeran… and for a moment, I wonder if I’m hallucinating. I wonder if I’m hearing only words I want to hear. I sit up in surprise when I realize I’m not alone anymore and my brain corrects the phrase I wanted to hear with what was actually spoken:

“You should have let _him_ go a long time ago.”

“Saeyoung,” I whisper, because I can’t trust my voice. If I speak any louder than this, it might be enough to collapse my emotional floodgates and allow the conflict I feel to drown me.

I rummage in my jacket pocket and pull out my letter of offer to a veterinary school in America. I hand it to Saeyoung and continue facing Saeran’s grave as he reads it. I don’t want to see how he feels about this decision I’ve made because I don’t want guilt to hold me back. I need this.

“I’m proud of you,” he says, and drops to his knees behind me, pulling me into a loving embrace. I return his hug as best I can, and grip his hands in mine. He’s so warm.

Then, I lift the scrapbook above my head. The green duotang filled with my memories of the Choi twins. I let it go when I feel him tugging at it, and it lifts from me like the weight of a thousand years of sadness. I feel empty and... _relieved._ So unbelievably relieved. I had been carrying all these feelings with me for so long and now that I’m no longer encumbered by them, all I feel is relief and… and possibility.

“Give it back when I’m stronger,” I choke out between sobs.

I don’t see Saeyoung again when I leave for America, despite my numerous texts asking him to see me off at the airport. My Mom and Dad are here though, with tears glistening in their eyes. I feel like I’m finally making them proud for the first time in my life.

When my eyes scan over the crowds of people, I imagine Saeyoung and Saeran both standing side by side, identical grins on their faces, waving me goodbye and I smile and return their goodbyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [Blackprose](https://blackprose.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and [@LikelyRogue](https://twitter.com/LikelyRogue) on Twitter. Hit me up to chat.
> 
> A big thank you to [Ely](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ely) for proofreading this chapter for me. Another thank you to my good friend Hayley for supporting me while writing this. You guys are awesome.


	6. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to my dear friend, Sabrina (1994-2015). I miss you.

You were aware when Yoosung returned to Korea with his veterinary license. You were aware the moment he landed, and you knew the names of all the people who went to greet him. You, of course, were not among those numbers.

You knew when Yoosung set up his own practice in Seoul. You knew when he proposed to his girlfriend on the roof of their apartment building. You knew the ring he picked out months before he even purchased it. You knew where and how they met; abroad, in America, where she was working as the librarian for veterinary sciences. You knew she was going to say yes. You knew she suspected it due to her social media chat history with her closest friends. 

They were married six months later. You consider how very much like Yoosung that is, to want to get married once he finished school. He’s always wanted somebody to support. 

You knew they were a good match. You didn’t want to interfere with that, so you did nothing but watch.

Now, you stand on the sidewalk outside Yoosung’s new home and life; the life that he created when he moved on, the life you encouraged him to seek. You’re obscured by a tree on his front lawn. Even if Yoosung looked out the window, he wouldn’t notice you. You consider how apt of a metaphor that is for your existence; you’re so close, and yet so far from Yoosung... and he has absolutely no idea. 

In your hand is the green duotang, the only physical piece of evidence that proves your connection to each other. All other photographs have been wiped in an effort to destroy your own identity.

“I don’t know why you kept that stupid thing,” your companion says, taking a deep drag from his cigarette. 

“It’s important,” you respond blankly, and hug it tightly to your chest like you’re saying your final goodbyes to an old friend.

And in a way, you were... weren’t you? Everything that you and Saeran ever were to Yoosung exists in this book. Everything you used to be, before life forced you into the back alleys of the world, working with people and cases that would cause civilians to faint at the thought. 

You wish you could have preserved your old self. It’s enough for you that it exists in this notebook, but it’s no longer yours to keep. You need to return it.

You stand there too long, enraptured by the mundane appearance of Yoosung’s home. You always expected he’d get here, eventually, but seeing it feels… unreal. You wonder if that’s just because of your lingering feelings and regrets; regrets that he does not share that house with you, or regrets that Yoosung no longer feels anything for you.

That’s not true either, is it? Yoosung still visits Saeran’s grave every year since returning to Korea, and every few months, you catch your name in his search history, as if he’s trying to discover if you’ve resurfaced. It never yields any results. You’ve made sure of that.

“You asked for this instead of payment on your last job, right?” your companion speaks again, and takes the final drag of his cigarette. “What a waste,” he mumbles under his breath before flicking it onto the cement and stomping it under his boot. 

Usually, you’re the member of this duo who talks too much. However, today you are speechless. It could be because that last job was particularly awful and emotionally taxing; it could be because you were almost caught three times during the fieldwork portion; it could be because the only thought that got you through those past few months was this reward. It could be many things, and each one pointed back to Yoosung. The boy who liked your brother instead of you. 

And you… you could’ve pursued Yoosung harder than you did, but you didn’t want to sully Saeran’s memory with more incorrigible acts. So, you settled for saving him from himself. You did everything you could to pull Yoosung out of his depression and back to his life, and here it is, in front of you now: the fruits of your labour.

His wife is four months pregnant. Yoosung hopes it’s a girl. 

“It’s almost time to go, kid.” your companion crosses his arms over his chest and stares at you like he can’t understand why you’re doing this. 

He still calls you a kid, all these years later. You suspect, at this point, it’s become a term of affection despite the fact that you’re almost twenty-eight. 

“In a second, Vanderwood.”

You don’t even bother to call him by one of the thirty hilarious nicknames you’ve given him over the years. This causes Vanderwood to raise an eyebrow in surprise, but he doesn’t say anything. He either doesn’t care or he knows not to ask questions; not in your line of work. 

You close your eyes and hug the duotang a little closer. In your imagination, Yoosung catches you silently depositing the book in his mailbox. He catches your hand as you move away and before you’ve realized it, he pulls you in for an embrace. In your imagination, he feels the same as before, even though you know he’s gotten taller (taller than you, in fact) and he’s likely much more solid than the squishy college kid you were privileged enough to touch. 

In your imagination, Yoosung still loves you and he wants you in his life forever. You’ve imagined it countless times. It’s unhealthy, you know it is, but you can’t ever stop thinking about the what ifs. In fact, what ifs are all you have anymore. Agents can’t have relationships or lives or even autonomy. But you’ll always have your imagination, and in there, Saeran hasn’t died and Yoosung still loves you. He loves you both. 

You never let your imagination define what it means for your relationship for both you and your brother to be in love with Yoosung, because if you did, you’d be playing second fiddle your entire life. You’d always be third wheel, because Saeran was who Yoosung wanted. Even though you absolutely despised it at times, you knew that was the truth. Saeran needed Yoosung more than you did, and you loved your brother too damn much to let your emotions interfere. Even when he cheated on Yoosung or made him cry. Even after his suicide stole the light out of Yoosung’s eyes for years.

You’re no longer in your imagination. You’re standing outside Yoosung’s front door. It’s yellow and has a handmade wreath hanging from it full of tulips and white roses and golden petals. It surprises you that something so garish adorns the door when your memories pictured a blank, white one. Something deep inside you understands that this is because your memories don’t include his wife. 

You open the metal mailbox lid and slide the green duotang inside. As you move to turn away, your imagination gets the better of you and you remember the feeling of Yoosung’s fingers clasped around your wrist, his heavy breathing in your ear, his moans as he whispered your name. You shake your head to dismiss irrelevant thoughts, but you can still vividly remember the feeling of his fingers on your hand.

“Hello, old friend.”

You can feel those fingers because they’re currently on you. Yoosung’s voice sounds deeper than you remember it being, but it’s still soft and so distinctly Yoosung that your entire body tenses. 

You turn to Yoosung, eyes wide in shock, and just stare for a few moments, speechless and unable to respond. 

Yoosung remembers you. You know it’s a stupid thought but you had always believed that maybe he hated you for forcing yourself on him, or for letting him use you like he did. You had always taken the blame, even in your own thoughts, because Yoosung didn’t deserve any of it. To you, he only deserved happiness. 

Yet… the thought that he even remembers you and calls you a friend is enough to shatter any pretense of a sneak visit. 

Even in your imagination, reuniting with Yoosung didn’t feel this good.  Nothing has ever felt as good, and you truly believe that nothing will ever feel as good for the rest of your life. You return his radiant, unguarded smile and wonder how you could ever see such a destroyed look on his face in the past. Yoosung is so bright. You have spent these past four years living in the shadows, but just being near Yoosung makes you feel like you’re under the sun. Your heart aches that he’s still able to look at you like that, with the same smile he wore as a teenager; the only difference now is he looks more mature, and he’s definitely less naive. He’s  grown up. 

He’s healed... and he didn’t forget you.

Thank God. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who took the time to read my fic. Writing this entire thing was an exploration into my own soul, as well as different narrative styles. Thank you for accompanying me on this journey. 
> 
> If you liked this, please check out my other mystic messenger fan fiction. I promise write through Saeran's perspective so be prepared. 
> 
> I'm [Blackprose](https://blackprose.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and [@LikelyRogue](https://twitter.com/LikelyRogue) on Twitter. Hit me up to chat.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [Blackprose](https://blackprose.tumblr.com/) on tumblr and [@LikelyRogue](https://twitter.com/LikelyRogue) on Twitter. Hit me up to chat or buy me a [coffee](https://ko-fi.com/blackprose)
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please read my other works!


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